-^ 


ftb 


OLGA 
BARD  E  L 


STACY  AUMONIER 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OLGA   BARDEL 


OLGA  BARDEL 


BY 


STACY  AUMONIER 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
The  Century  Co. 


Published,  September,  1916 


1>\ 

Goo\ 
Pi  ^o? Oct 


DEDICATKD  TO 

CURTIS  BROWN 


1512-SO 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

CHAPTEB  PAOK 

PROLOGUE:   BRAILLE'S  PORTRAIT 3 

I    MECHANICAL  ACTIONS 17 

II     "SCALES" 34 

III  A  FESTIVAL  OF  DEPRAVITY 63 

IV  ROLLY'S    AQUARIUM 69 

V  CHESSLE  TERRACE 86 

VI    "THE  ARMENIAN  FROCK" 94 

VII  "REVOLT"  112 

VIII  "THE  BOARD  MEETING" 130 

IX  THE  TWO  METHODS 148 

X  THE    LANTERN 166 

BOOK  II 

I  'IDEAS"         '. 187 

II  "THE   GUILDEFORD  SET" 197 

III  KARL'S  VISIT 218 

IV  THE  DRONE  OF  LONDON 235 

V  AMBITION  250 

VI  RETROSPECTION  269 

VIT     "THE    COMFORTABLE   CRUCIFIXION"    .      .      .      .286 

VIU     THE  RETURN 301 

IX    THE  SANCTUARY  OF  PORCELAIN 319 

X    THE  FURTFVE  LOVERS       .      .  ....   335 

XI     THE   LETTER     . 351 

EPILOGUE:  THE  ROOF  OF  PURBECK  STONT]       .    360 


OLGA  BARDEL 

BOOK  I 


OLGA  BARDEL 


PROLOGUE 


BRMLLE'a    PORTRAIT 


IT  was  delightful  meeting  Braille  again  after  so 
many  years.  For  some  reason  or  other  I  had  been 
to  a  smoking  concert  in  connection  with  a  hospital, 
and  afterwards  had  adjourned  with  several  doctors  to  a 
very  gloomy  club  in  St.  James's.  Now  doctors  are  the 
dearest  chaps  in  the  world ;  but  when  they  get  together, 
and  have  one  or  two  drinks  and  start  talking  shop,  they 
are  apt  to  make  one  feel  uncomfortable.  I  had  made 
some  excuse  and  quitted  their  society,  and  I  must  say 
that  I  felt  very  relieved  to  get  out  into  the  air.  As  I 
was  going  round  the  corner  of  Jermyn  Street  I  ran  into 
Braille. 

I  had  not  seen  Braille  since  we  were  at  the  Beaux  Arts 
together,  which  was  remarkable  inasmuch  as  at  that  time 
we  were  inseparable.  I  forget  the  exact  questions  that 
had  caused  a  final  estrangement  between  us,  but  I  believe 
that  a  series  of  differences  in  connection  with  housework 
may  have  brought  matters  to  a  head. 

As  far  as  I  can  remember  Braille  did  not  show  up 
very  well  at  that  time.  Of  course  it  may  have  been  a 
little  ambitious  on  my  part  to  attempt  a  bouillebaisse 

3 


4  OLGA  BAEDEL 

with  the  limited  accessories  for  cooking  that  we  had  at 
the  Rue  Quatre  Septembre,  but  he  certainly  took  a  very 
exaggerated  view  of  its  failure,  and  the  damage  that  was 
done  to  a  folio  of  his  water  colors,  that  had  in  any  case  no 
right  to  have  been  on  the  east  side  of  the  stove.  We  had 
definitely  arranged  that  they  were  not  to  be  put  on  the 
east  side  of  the  stove,  and  he  knew  it.  And  at  the  same 
time  his  eternal  omelettes — without  seasoning  of  any 
sort — were  not  so  superlatively  wonderful  as  to  give  any 
sort  of  justification  for  the  supercilious  attitude  that  he 
adopted  towards  my  bouillehaisse.  Moreover,  he  was  so 
ridiculously  fastidious  about  certain  matters  in  connec- 
tion with  washing  up  that  I  sometimes  despaired  of  him 
ever  becoming  an  artist  at  all ;  and  it  may  also  be  a  fact 
that  his  sudden  and  rapid  leap  to  success  whilst  I 
remained  somewhere  near  the  starting  post,  may  have 
helped  to  shatter  that  world  of  splendid  intimacies  which 
we  shared  for  all  too  brief  a  period. 

But  whatever  the  reason — and  you  must  please  remem- 
ber that  at  that  time  we  were  both  very  young,  at  an  age 
when  the  affair  of  the  houillehaisse  assumed  portentous 
dimensions — it  was  a  breach  that  personally  I  instantly 
deplored  and  for  the  rest  of  my  life  up  to  that  period 
had  profoundly  regretted.  It  was  one  of  those  cases  in 
which  we  were  both  too  proud  to  take  the  first  step  at 
reconciliation,  and  then  we  left  it  too  long. 

But  of  late  I  had  been  thinking  very  intently  of  Braille 
on  account  of  that  remarkable  painting  of  his  called 
"The  Mother,"  which  of  course  you  know,  and  which 
had  just  been  exhibited  for  the  first  time  in  London. 
You  may  imagine  then  the  feeling  of  elation  that  pos- 
sessed me  when  I  gripped  his  hand,  a  feeling  that  was 


BRAILLE'S  PORTRAIT  5 

further  accentuated  when  I  realized  that  Braille  was  by 
no  means  unmoved  at  meeting  me. 

"You  look  just  the  same,"  he  said,  and  I  felt  his  keen 
eyes  searching  ray  face  and  seeing  it  "in  terms  of  paint." 

The  hair  on  Braille's  temples  had  turned  quite  gray, 
but  otherwise  he,  too,  looked  remarkably  the  same. 
I  remember  that  I\IcCartney  one  day  remarked,  ' '  Braille 
has  an  old-fashioned  face.  You  expect  him  to  quote 
Latin  tags."  I  never  heard  him  quote  Latin  tags,  but  he 
certainly  had  an  old-fashioned  face  to  the  extent  that  his 
features  were  molded  on  classic  lines.  They  were  clean 
cut  and  strong  and  had  something  of  that  Puritanic  cast 
that  characterized  the  old  Colonial  pioneers.  He  was 
tall  and  straight,  and  on  the  surface  very  English.  I 
remember  another  remark  that  McCartney  made  concern- 
ing him.  Braille  was  standing  one  day,  verj-  erect, 
looking  out  of  our  window  across  a  vista  of  roofs,  and 
^McCartney  was  sitting  by  me  sketching  feverishly  with  a 
pencil — he  was  one  of  those  people  who  could  not  keep 
his  hands  still — he  looked  at  Braille  and  muttered, 

"Dreaming  of  his  well-groomed  lawns." 

And  somehow  that  phrase  always  stuck  to  me  in  think- 
ing of  Braille.  "Well-groomed  lawns"  seemed  to  give 
a  lively  keynote  to  his  character,  as  it  does  I  fancy  to 
many  another  Englishman  in  distant  lands  who  dreams 
of  his  "brumous  isle."  It  suggests  centuries  of  a  culti- 
vated faith  in  certain  things —  Cold  baths,  dumb-bells, 
marmalade,  conformity  and  well-ordered  sport.  The  ex- 
pression seemed  peculiarly  apposite  to  Braille — in  any 
case  to  the  surface  of  Braille — because  his  people  had  a 
lovely  old  manor  house  in  Somerset,  and  they  used  to 
hunt  and  shoot,  and  do  all  those  things  whicli  a  real 


6  OLGA  BARDEL 

Englishman  should  do.  He  had  a  certain  frigidity  of 
manner  with  strangers,  and  enjoyed  a  reputation  for 
aloofness  and  austerity.  But  those  of  us  who  knew  him 
well,  knew  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  a  man  of  very 
keen  sympathies  and  sensibilities,  although  he  had  that 
infinite  capacity  for  never  betraying  emotion  before 
strangers  which  is  an  established  tradition  of  our  race. 
When  one  got  him  alone  the  edifice  of  this  austere  bear- 
ing would  suddenly  come  crashing  to  the  ground,  and  he 
would  break  into  a  delightful  boyish  manner.  He  loved 
to  talk  of  intimate  things,  and  he  did  so  in  a  naive, 
unselfconscious  manner. 

His  father  had  been  an  admiral  who  had  died  when 
Braille  was  twelve.  His  veneration  for  his  father  had 
an  enormous  influence  on  his  life.  It  was  difficult  to  get 
him  to  speak  of  him.  He  would  only  do  so  to  people  of 
whom  he  was  fond,  and  only  then  on  rare  occasions  and 
in  a  changed  tone  of  voice.  After  a  time  he  would  shrug 
his  shoulders  and  look  contemptuously  round  the  studio, 
as  though  embracing  in  his  glance  the  whole  fabric  of 
human  society,  and  mutter,  "All  these  other  things  seem 
such— piffle!" 

I  know  very  little  about  Admiral  Braille,  but  he  must 
have  been  a  man  of  unique  character.  He  certainly 
handed  down  to  his  son  great  qualities  of  heart  and 
brain,  virility  and  resource,  a  fierce  hatred  of  cruelty  and 
uncleanliness,  and  a  certain  splendid  chivalry.  Neither 
do  I  know  anything  of  his  mother  or  of  that  mystic  influ- 
ence that  lured  him  from  the  sea. 

As  a  painter  he  painted  with  insolent  cleverness  from 
the  first,  and  has  since,  as  you  know,  become  famous  as 
one  of  the  world's  most  dexterous  portrait  painters. 


BRAILLE'S  PORTRAIT  7 

I  'm  not  sure  that  even  now  I  admire  his  work  to  the 
extent  that  so  many  experts  appear  to.  He  loved  to  lay 
bare  the  shallow  side  of  human  nature,  its  glitter  and 
appanage.  Fat  society  women  surrounded  by  greedy, 
expensive  little  dogs ;  anaemic  princes  standing  under  the 
protection  of  massive  porticos  that  emphasized  their 
insignificance;  brainless,  flaccid  daughters  of  ancient 
families  lying  on  gorgeous  settees  in  rooms  of  magnificent 
proportions  and  appointments;  all  these  things  jumped 
at  you  from  the  canvas,  and  gripped  your  attention  by 
their  amazing  cleverness  of  portrayal.  You  were 
dazzled  by  the  virility  of  the  thing. 

I  always  found  Braille  a  much  more  lovable  person 
than  the  impression  of  his  work  might  suggest.  I 
remember  that  one  day  when  I  railed  him  on  his  outlook, 
he  replied,  "Perhaps  if  they  would  let  me  paint  the  poor 
I  would  paint  with  more  reverence." 

This  of  course  was  nonsense,  for  there  was  nothing  to 
prevent  hiin  from  painting  the  poor,  except  that  the  rich 
clamored  to  be  painted  by  Braille  and  paid  for  it,  and 
the  poor  did  n't.  My  own  impression  is  that  Braille  was 
capable  of  painting  the  poor  and  painting  with  more 
reverence,  only  that  at  that  time  the  other  thing  excited 
his  executive  ability  more,  and  it  also  satisfied  a  certain 
cynical — one  might  almost  say  "evangelical" — streak  in 
his  own  nature. 

That  he  was  capable  of  painting  with  reverence  and 
dignity  has  since  been  amply  demonstrated.  But  I 
think  it  was  his  painting  of  "The  Mother"  that  marked 
the  first  change  in  this  direction. 

"The  Mother,"  as  I  have  said,  had  just  appeared  in 
London  a  few  weeks  previous  to  the  occasion  of  my  meet- 


8  OLGA  BARDEL 

ing  Braille  in  Jermyn  Street,  and  it  had  created  a  stir. 
You  remember  the  beautifully  painted  interior,  very  low 
in  tone  and  very  sober.  It  had  none  of  that  insolence 
that  characterized  so  many  of  his  portraits.  A  woman 
in  a  gray  frock  is  leaning  on  the  black  frame  of  a  grand 
piano,  and  looking  at  her  son.  He  is  a  handsome  young 
rascal  in  khaki.  He  is  silhouetted  against  the  window 
reading  a  letter.  He  is  grinning — just  in  the  way  that 
any  young  rascal  will  grin  when  he  reads  any  letter  from 
any  girl.  And  the  mother's  face  is  grave  and  thought- 
ful and  very  beautiful.  It  is  a  superbly  balanced  work. 
But  what  interested  me  most  particularly  was  the  fact 
that  the  lady  in  the  gray  dress  was — Olga  Bardel ! 

I  can  hardly  tell  you  how  amazed  I  was  when  I  recog- 
nized this  fact.  In  what  way  had  Braille  come  in  touch 
with  Olga  Bardel?  And  why  had  he  broken  his  tradi- 
tion to  the  extent  of  painting  this  singularly  emotional 
picture  ?  For  as  one  gazed  at  the  face  of  this  ' '  Mother ' ' 
looking  at  her  son,  one  seemed  to  read  much  of  the  mys- 
tery and  beauty  of  her  life.  It  could  only  have  been 
painted  by  some  one  supremely  conscious  of  these 
qualities.  .  .  . 

Braille  took  my  arm  quite  automatically  as  he  used  to 
in  the  old  days,  and  pulled  me  along  in  a  panting 
endeavor  to  keep  in  step  with  his  long  strides. 

"I  have  a  little  place  over  in  Gyves  Court,"  he  said. 

As  we  turned  a  corner  an  action  of  his  brought  old 
memories  flooding  back  and  sealed  our  sense  of  intimacy. 
He  suddenly  pulled  my  arm  and  peered  down  a  passage, 
then  he  cocked  his  head  at  a  slight  tilt,  and  swept  his 
stick  round  in  a  circle,  thus  defining  the  ambit  of  a  pic- 
ture.    He  was  always  doing  this  in  Paris.    When  any- 


BRAILLE'S  PORTRAIT  9 

thing  paintable  struck  him  he  just  held  it  and  defined  it 
and  we  looked  at  it  together  in  silence.  I  used  to  call 
them  his  "little  visions."  It  wasn't  necessary  to  speak 
at  all,  but  sometimes  I  would  say,  "Yes,  jolly !  isn't  it?" 
and  occasionally  Braille  would  amplify  his  selection  by 
muttering,  ' '  Van  Ey ck ! "  or  "  Pieter  de  Hoogh  ! "  or  else, 
' '  Wants  a  figure  to  give  it  scale, ' '  or  some  other  remark 
emphasized  to  give  a  workmanlike  flavor  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  this  mutual  vision. 

We  walked  through  a  courtyard  in  silence,  and  up  the 
steps  of  an  eighteenth-century  building,  where  a  solemn 
Georgian-looking  man  ushered  us  into  Braille's  capacious 
apartments.  They  were  furnished  with  a  traditional  and 
robust  dignity  that  one  would  expect  of  Braille.  We 
went  into  a  dining-room  where  well-modulated  lights 
revealed  eighteenth-century  paneling  and  fireplace.  The 
walls  were  an  egg-shell  green  with  white  moldings  and 
cornice.  Some  Grinling  Gibbons  carving  over  the  fire- 
place left  in  the  original  lime  tree  and  going  gray.  A 
magnificent  Chinese  lacquer  cabinet  between  the  win- 
dows, and  only  one  painting  on  the  walls,  a  tempera  by 
some  early  Siennese  master  of  whom  I  had  not  heard. 

The  Georgian-looking  gentleman  placed  a  tray  of 
glasses  and  a  tantalus  on  the  center  table  and  drew  up 
two  easy  chairs  to  the  fire  and  then  left  us.  Braille 
lighted  his  pipe  and  grinned  at  me. 

"Now  tell  me  all  your  new.s,"  he  said. 

^ly  news  was  essentially  of  a  prosaic  order  and  we 
soon  came  to  discussing  abstract  things. 

Now  it  is  a  deplorable  fact  that,  generally  speaking, 
when  we  meet  people  who  were  our  friends  ten  years  or 
more  ago  and  whom  we  have  since  dropped,  we  usually 


10  OLGA  BARDEL 

find  them  drab.  We  always  imagine  that  we  have  gone 
on,  whilst  they  have  stood  still.  They  probably  have  the 
same  impression  of  us.  In  any  case  it  is  seldom  that  a 
great  friendship  dropped  for  any  length  of  time  is 
reestablished  with  any  degree  of  success.  Perhaps  it 
proves  that  we  are  all  social  cannibals!  We  batten  on 
each  other 's  sympathies  and  thoughts.  We  exhaust  each 
other,  and  when  we  find  insufficient  mental  and  moral 
nourishment  we  throw  each  other  aside  and  seek  fresh 
pastures. 

It  was  very  gratifying  therefore  to  us  to  find  that  we 
seemed  to  go  on  from  the  point  where  we  left  off  years 
ago.  Braille  always  had  the  faculty  of  exciting  me,  and 
making  me  find  surprising  things  within  myself,  and  the 
years  seemed  to  have  given  him  an  increased  buoyancy. 
We  had  a  wild  orgy  of  talk  that  night  about  the  people 
we  used  to  know,  about  "shop,"  about  ideas,  and  every 
conceivable  thing.  But  still  Braille  seemed  to  avoid  the 
subject  that  was  uppermost  in  my  mind,  the  subject  of 
'The  Mother."  It  must  have  been  some  unearthly  hour 
of  the  night  when  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "I  'm  just 
beginning,  Tony — just  beginning  to  learn  something 
about  painting.  I  'm  going  to  start  all  over  again.  I  've 
been  too  objective." 

"Good  heavens!"  I  answered.  "What  nonsense! 
Every  year  a  Braille  becomes  more  definitely  a  Braille. 
Wh}^  only  yesterday  I  was  in  at  the  Grosvenor.  I  was 
looking  at  your  portrait  of  the  Due  de  Barre  Sinisterre. 
I  stood  by  it  for  quite  a  time  and  heard  the  remarks  of 
the  people.  Eighty  per  cent,  of  them  said,  'Why,  that  's 
a  Braille ! ' ;  as  far  as  I  can  remember  no  one  said,  '  Why, 


BRAILLE'S  PORTRAIT  11 

that's  the  Due  de  Barre  Sinisterre!'  Isn't  this  evi- 
dence of  subjectivity  with  a  vengeance  ? ' ' 

"It  is 'n't  exactly  what  I  mean,"  answered  Braille. 
"Tell  me,  what  did  they  say  after  remarking  that  it  was 
a  Braille?" 

"Well,"  I  replied,  "some  said,  'Deucid  clever,  isn't 
it?';  others  said,  'What  an  old  blackguard  the  man 
looks!';  and  others,  'By  Jove!  the  Buhl  cabinet  is  clev- 
erly painted ! '  I  even  heard  some  one  say,  '  Is  it  true 
that  Braille  gets  five  thousand  pounds  for  a  portrait?'  " 

"One  might  almost  call  that  objectivity  with  a 
vengeance, ' '  he  remarked. 

"What  would  you  like  them  to  say?"  I  asked. 

Braille  thought  for  a  moment  and  took  up  the  poker. 
He  threatened  the  fire  with  it  and  then  put  it  down 
again.     Then  he  said : 

"I  should  like  them  to  look  at  the  portrait  for  a  long 
time  without  speaking.  Then  I  should  like  them  to  mut- 
ter, *My  God!'  and  then  walk  straight  out  of  the  gallery 
and  never  be  the  same  again." 

I  laughed  and  answered,  "Well,  I  can  tell  you  that 
your  demands  were  fulfilled  in  my  case  in  respect  of 
another  painting  of  yours.  I  think  that  I  may  say  that 
I  gazed  at  'The  Mother'  for  a  long  time.  I  believe  I 
muttered  'My  God!'  and  I  know  I  have  been — not  quite 
the  same  since." 

Braille  looked  up  at  me  quickly  and  there  was  a 
strange  silence  between  us.  I  felt  a  little  bit  like  a  tres- 
passer on  sacred  soil  and  I  made  a  bold  attempt  to  justify 
myself. 

"I  think  I  might  go  further,"  I  said.     "The  picture 


12  OLGA  BARDEL 

appealed  to  something  fundamental  in  me.  At  that 
time  I  did  walk  out  of  the  gallery.  I  went  to  an  aerated 
bread  shop  and  drank  quantities  of  hot  weak  tea.  I  was 
very  excited.  Then  I  went  back  to  the  gallery  and 
looked  at  it  again.  I  felt  curiously  stirred  by  the  por- 
trait— for  I  like  to  think  of  it  as  a  portrait —  I  assure 
you  it  had  the  effect  on  me  precisely  as  you  prescribed. 
I  was  and  am  still  under  its  spell.  It  has  the  stimulus 
of  great  art.  As  you  know,  I  was  a  wretched  painter  at 
my  best.  And  I  see  no  reason  to  think  that  I  should 
write  any  better.  But '  The  Mother '  brought  to  a  head  a 
certain  slumbering  ambition  that  I  had  had  for  a  long 
time." 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Braille. 

* '  To  set  down  to  the  best  of  my  ability  the  story  of — 
OlgaBardel!" 

I  watched  the  queer  look  of  surprise  creep  over 
Braille's  face.  Then  he  suddenly  laughed  and  stood  up. 
He  stretched  himself  and  looked  at  his  long  firm  hands. 

"It  's  a  ridiculous  profession,"  he  said  at  last;  "the 
profession  of  writing. ' '  Then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  added,  ' ' I  Mould  help  you  if  I  could. ' ' 

"I  shall  want  the  stimulus  of  your  'little  visions/  "  I 
answered. 

I  felt  Braille  looking  at  me  pityingly,  and  then  with  a 
sudden  boyishness  he  said,  "I  'm  glad  you  feel  like  that, 
though !  Perhaps  after  all,  Tony,  it  's  the  only  thing 
worth  doing !  You  met  her  at  the  Guildefords ',  did  n  't 
you?  One  met  every  one  at  the  Guildefords'.  Doesn't 
it  seem  rum,  you  and  I  sitting  here  to-night  after  all 
these  years — and  after  all  that  has  happened,  and  the 
thing  that  appeals  to  us  is  that  we  want  to  'set  it  down !' 


BRAILLE'S  PORTRAIT  i;} 

You  in  your  silly  tablets,  and  I  in  paint.  And  it  moves 
us  more  than  anything.  Do  you  remember  in  the  old 
days  when  we  used  to  talk  about  the  'fun'  of  paint?  I 
overdid  it,  I  think.  It  has  always  been  the  'fun'  of 
paint  to  me.  I  'm  tired  of  saying  that  rich  and  vulgar 
people  are  rich  and  vulgar.  It  's  so  obvious  and  silly. 
There  's  something  else  I  want  to  say,  something  of  more 
permanent  value.  It  's  strange  that  you  should  have 
had — the  same  call,  for  I  've  thought  of  you  a  lot  during 
these  years.  .  .  .  ^May  I  have  some  of  your  John  Cotton  ? 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "writing  is  a  poor  business.  You 
may  say  a  face  is  '  beautiful, '  and  some  one  with  imagina- 
tion conceives  a  beautiful  face,  but  you  can't  make  a 
beautiful  face  in  words.  You  can  say  the  eyes  are  like  a 
gazelle's,  or  the  head  like  a  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  or  the 
nose  is  retrousse  or  some  silly  expression  like  that,  but 
you  can't  arrest  some  supreme  moment  or  expression  of 
life  and  fix  it.  You  can  ramble  on  and  spend  half  your 
life  setting  something  down,  as  you  call  it,  but  when  it  's 
done  it  takes  people  a  month  to  read  it.  And  they  road 
it  in  various  moods,  and  go  to  sleep  and  forget  most  of  it, 
and  lose  the  shape,  or  jibe  at  it  on  account  of  some  sen- 
tence that  offends  them.  Painting  does  its  work  like  a 
knife.  You  spend  a  month  on  a  work,  and  the  result  is 
achieved  in  a  coup  d'ocU.  You  see  it  all  at  once  and 
can't  pretend  not  to.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  of  my  old 
friend.  Dr.  Paes?" 

I  shook  my  head  and  Braille  continued, 

"I  met  him  at  an  hotel  in  Alexandria.  He  was  a 
most  amazing  old  chap.  T  think  he  was  of  Portuguese 
stock.  He  was  extraordinarily  ugly.  He  had  largo  pro- 
truding eyes  that  looked  perfectly  fantastic  through  his 


U  OLGA  BARDEL 

thick  glasses.  He  was  narrow  chested  and  went  about 
in  the  hottest  weather  with  a  thick  white  muffler  round 
his  neck.  I  think  lie  suffered  with  chronic  asthma.  He 
talked  to  me  at  great  length.  He  talked  more  freely 
and  intimately  about  love  than  any  one  I  have  ever  met. 
He  had  a  theory  of  what  he  called  '  apotheose. '  He  said 
that  all  life  was  a  dormant  condition  except  for  certain 
supreme  moments.  He  took  the  marriage  of  the  queen 
bee  as  a  basis.  How  on  a  certain  fine  day  in  the  summer 
the  queen  will  leave  the  hive  and  fly  up  into  the  vault  of 
heaven,  and  all  the  males  will  follow  her.  She  goes  up 
and  up  and  it  is  consequently  the  strongest  bee  that 
catches  her.  They  have  one  wild,  mad  embrace  up  in 
the  blue  and  then  he  falls  to  the  earth — dead !  He  drew 
human  analogies  from  this.  Man  is  sustained  up  to  the 
age  of  maturity,  he  contended,  by  the  subconscious  warn- 
ing that  this  moment  is  approaching. 

"And  then  it  arrives.  Youth  meets  youth — there  is 
the  contact.  Nothing  else  in  life  is  of  consequence. 
Time  ceases  to  exist ;  place  and  the  whole  paraphernalia 
of  social  progress  have  no  significance.  Gradually  this 
love-phase  passes,  passion  stales,  and  the  conscious- 
ness of  time  reveals  the  fact  that  it  is  over,  and  then  man 
calms  down  and  prepares  for — what  do  you  think?  The 
next  reincarnation !  He  believed  implicitly  in  reincarna- 
tion. He  described  minutely  his  own  feelings  and  sensa- 
tions during  three  weeks  of  his  honeymoon  with  his  wife, 
a  remarkably  ugly  Dutch  woman  staying  in  the  hotel. 
They  seemed  devoted.  But  he  told  me  that  after  this 
impassioned  period  everything  else  is  a  cunning  device 
of  Nature  to  sustain  the  ego  in  a  state  of  resignation  until 
such  time  as  he  or  she  shall  again  enjoy  the  unconscious- 


BRAILLE'S  PORTRAIT  15 

ness  of  time.  Time  he  described  as  a  convention  of 
mind,  and  philosophy  and  religion  as  very  little  above 
alcohol,  merely  sops  to  the  yearning  heart!  'What  is  it 
you  feel,'  he  said  to  me  one  day,  'when  you  are  alone 
walking  on  a  heath  in  your  old  age  and  the  wann  wind 
beats  on  your  temples?  A  sudden  confidence !  Is  it  not 
that  the  normal  attitude  of  the  world  is  that  of  resigna- 
tion ?  Truly !  It  is  resignation  born  of  the  knowledge 
that  one  will  one  day  again  feel  the  mystic  embrace  and 
that  time  will  lose  its  meaning.'  I  asked  him  if  he 
thought  that  in  his  next  reincarnation  he  would  have  the 
same  wife.  He  said  it  was  possible  but  not  probable. 
The  matter  did  not  seem  to  interest  him  very  much. 
'Besides,'  he  added,  'one  may  be  born  male  in  one  rein- 
carnation and  female  in  the  next ! '  By  some  occult 
method  he  worked  out  the  fact  that  he  himself  would  be 
reborn  in  two  hundred  and  thirty  years '  time.  You  will 
not  believe  it!  He  was  calmly  looking  forward  to  the 
occasion  and  to  the  impassioned  three  weeks  that  would 
occur  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  hence ! 

"I  do  not  pretend  to  believe  in  old  Paes'  theory,"  con- 
tinued Braille.  "But  I  do  believe,  the  older  I  grow,  in 
apotheosis ;  that  is,  that  one  must  learn  resignation  and 
then  grasp  supreme  moments,  especially  in  one's  work. 
It  is  only  by  its  great  endurance  and  its  great  passions 
that  life  presents  anything  M'orth  expressing." 

Suddenly  he  went  to  the  window  and  pulled  back  the 
curtain,  and  sat  on  the  sill.  He  opened  the  window  a 
little  way,  for  the  night  w^as  warm  for  February.  The 
drone  of  sleepy  London  reached  us.  Vague  lights 
flickered  here  and  there,  trying  to  penetrate  her  thousand 
mysteries,  whilst  overhead  a  few  pale  stars  were  dimly 


16  OLGA  BARDEL 

discernible  as  though  holding  an  uncertain  watch  over 
this  grim  city  that  they  did  not  understand. 

Suddenly  he  said, 

"It  's  a  lovely  game ! ' ' 

He  did  not  attempt  to  explain  this  cryptic  utterance. 
But  as  one  who  knew  him  very  well  I  believe  I  might  say 
that  the  thoughts  that  came  to  his  mind  at  that  moment, 
if  expressed  in  his  own  language,  were : 

"It  's  a  lovely  game — thinking  and  talking  about 
people.  It  's  a  specially  lovely  game  painting  the  silly 
blighters !  "What  are  they  all  doing  mooning  about  ?  eat- 
ing, sleeping,  fighting,  making  money,  making  love,  get- 
ting into  trouble,  weaving  silly  romances !  None  of  them 
with  any  very  set  purposes,  mostly  doing  things  from 
mixed  motives,  good  motives  and  bad  motives,  but  they 
all  come  into  our  net  in  the  long  run — to  be  talked  about, 
and  'set  down,'  and  painted  and  given  subjectivity!  I 
love  them  all,  even  the  bad  ones.  In  fact  I  think  I  love 
the  bad  ones  best,  they  're  so  brave  and  so  unhappy.  So 
you  need  n't  look  so  superior,  you  silly  pale  stars !  It  's 
a  lovely  game ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  I 

MECHANICAL  ACTIONS 

IN  the  corner  of  a  meager  room  in  Canning  Town  a 
child  was  banging  on  a  piece  of  iron.  The  action 
gave  the  child  no  satisfaction,  for  it  gave  forth  a 
hard  unmelodious  sound,  but  the  day  was  close  and  the 
atmosphere  encouraged  perversity.  It  was  past  the  time 
when  she  was  in  the  habit  of  having  a  thick  piece  of 
bread  given  her,  covered  with  a  thin  layer  of  dripping — 
an  operation  called  by  the  others  "dinner."  But  this 
had  not  so  far  taken  place.  She  felt  restless  and  un- 
happy, and  the  banging  on  iron  seemed  in  some  way  to 
fit  in  with  her  mood.  She  was  conscious  that  she  dis- 
liked the  sound,  but  she  enjoyed  the  agony  of  discord. 
She  repeated  the  performance,  and  then  a  harsh  voice 
called  out,  "Stop  that  row,  you  little  beast !"  She  knew 
that  this  voice  came  from  a  very  tall  person  who  was 
called  her  sister,  and  whom  the  others  called  "Irene." 
She  shared  this  room  with  Irene.  It  was  their  bedroom, 
and  their  sitting-room,  their  eating-room,  Irene's  work- 
room, and  on  very  unique  occa.sions — everybody's  bath- 
room. In  fact  it  was  apparently  the  only  room  in  the 
world.  Other  people  came  into  it  and  made  it  hotter 
and  more  uncomfortable  and  then  went  out,  apparently 
unable  to  stand  it  any  longer.  Tliore  were  two  people 
in  particular  who  came  in  every  night  when  she  was  very 

17 


18  OLGA  BAEDEL 

tired,  and  made  a  tremendous  noise  and  ate  food  near 
her  bed  and  were  in  every  way  most  objectionable. 
These  were  called  her  "brothers,"  "Karl  and  Mon- 
tague." They  obviously  did  not  like  her,  and  some- 
times were  very  cruel.  They  always  referred  to  her  as 
"that  something  little  brat."  Karl  was  the  worst.  He 
was  the  eldest,  and  the  noisiest,  and  the  most  domineer- 
ing, although  he  certainly  did  wear  most  lovely  rings  on 
his  fingers.  Sometimes  he  would  come  in  in  the  night 
and  behave  in  a  most  peculiar  way,  and  she  heard  Irene 
accuse  him  of  "being  drunk."  Montague  was  a  little 
quieter  in  that  respect,  but  he  used  to  make  most  unpleas- 
ant noises  eating  his  food.  There  were  times,  however, 
when  IMontague  had  been  almost  kind.  She  remembered 
one  day  last  winter  when  she  had  a  very  bad  toothache, 
and  Montague  had  come  and  looked  at  her  and  said, 
"Poor  little  devil!"  She  felt  that  that  was  very  kind 
of  Montague,  and  somehow  it  reminded  her  of  her  father. 
She  could  remember  her  father  quite  well.  He  did  not 
seem  so  large  as  the  others,  and  he  used  to  bend  over  her 
and  fondle  her,  and  she  always  remembered  his  kind 
watery  eyes  and  the  queer  way  he  shuffled  about  the 
room.  Then  one  day  he  went  into  another  room  and 
"died";  that  is,  they  said  he  would  never  come  back 
again.  She  could  not  bear  to  dwell  on  this.  It  seemed 
so  terrible,  and  so  unlike  her  father.  She  knew  he  would 
want  to  come  back,  then  what  was  this  "death"  that 
prevented  it?  And  since  then  there  had  been  nothing 
to  replace  those  weak  watery  eyes  of  her  father's,  and 
there  were  moments  when  she  felt  the  world  bursting, 
and  she  could  not  stand  it.  This  was  one  of  those  days, 
and  after  a  very  brief  interval  she  banged  on  the  iron 


MECHANICAL  ACTIONS  19 

again.  There  was  a  quick  movement  and  Irene's  hand 
came  crashing  on  to  the  side  of  her  cheek,  in  three  rapid 
slaps.  "Haven't  I  told  you  to  stop  it,  you  little 
swine?"  The  blows  stung,  but  the  child  did  not  cry 
out.  She  just  stared  at  her  sister  as  though  surprised. 
She  certainly  was  a  queer  child  to  look  at.  She  had  a 
squat  chubby  face  with  a  small  nose  and  a  broad  chin 
and  square  cheeks.  Her  hair,  very  black  and  frizzy, 
stuck  out  in  peculiar  square  masses  overhanging  her 
shoulders.  The  neighbors  said  she  was  "weird."  She 
had  gray  eyes  with  unusual  depths.  ]Most  unexpected 
things  would  frighten  her  and  make  her  cry,  whilst 
chastisement,  such  as  that  just  inflicted  by  Irene,  or  some 
fateful  calamity  like  the  loss  of  a  doll  or  a  dinner,  would 
merely  leave  her  with  that  strained  expression  of  the 
face,  as  though  she  could  not  understand. 

There  was  a  somber  silence,  whilst  the  elder  girl  re- 
sumed her  work  at  the  table.  She  was  ironing  a  tattered 
sheet.  Olga  could  never  understand  why  her  sister 
wanted  to  stop  in  the  room  always,  and  do  things  of  this 
nature,  and  to-day  it  particularly  irritated  her.  She 
watched  her  for  some  time,  and  then  she  banged  on  the 


n-on  again. 


"Look  here,"  said  Irene,  jumping  up.  "if  you  do  that 
again,  I  11  take  you  up  to  Uncle  Grubhofer,  and  tell 
him." 

This  threat  had  the  desired  effect.  Olga  left  her  im- 
plements of  torture,  and  slunk  into  the  corner  of  the 
room.  This  ' '  Uncle  Grubhofer ' '  was  the  terror  of  Olga 's 
life.  The  mention  of  him  reminded  her  that  there  were 
other  rooms,  and  that  Uncle  Grubhofer  had  a  room. 
This  room  was  surely  the  most  terrible  room  in  the  world, 


20  OLGA  BARDEL 

It  was  full  of  great  spaces  and  shadows  and  boxes  and 
things  no  one  could  understand.  It  was  where  bad 
people  went,  and  Uncle  Grubhofer  just  looked  at  them 
with  those  queer  dark  eyes  of  his,  and  they  quailed  and 
shrunk  to  nothingness.  Irene  and  Karl  and  Montague 
were  large,  but  Uncle  Grubhofer  was  vast.  He  had  be- 
sides the  peculiar  faculty  of  expanding  at  will.  Some- 
times he  would  seem  to  shrink  away  into  being  quite  an 
ordinary  size  as  he  sat  on  his  chair;  in  fact  he  became 
even  smaller  for  his  face  was  thin  and  hollow  and  his 
arms  were  very  long  and  his  fingers  thin  and  bony,  and 
then  he  would  suddenly  unpack  himself !  There  seemed 
to  be  endless  folds  of  him  as  he  rose  up,  long  lines  of 
pendulous  clothes  draping  from  unexpected  projections. 
One  portion  of  his  anatomy  seemed  incredibly  enormous. 
She  heard  some  one  say  one  day  that  Uncle  Grubhofer 
looked  like  a  boa-constrictor  who  had  swallowed  a  goat. 
She  did  not  know  what  a  boa-constrictor  was,  but  she 
suspected  that  Uncle  Grubhofer  must  have  swallowed 
something  tremendous;  and  she  was  sure  he  could  not 
digest  it,  and  that  was  why  his  face  looked  so  sad,  so 
sallow  and  so  terrifying. 

He  wore  a  little  round  black  cap,  perched  on  the  dank 
gray  hairs  on  the  top  of  his  head  which  she  took  to  be 
some  insignia  of  power.  For  she  knew  that  he  was 
powerful,  perhaps  the  most  powerful  person  in  the 
world,  for  the  others  would  whisper  about  him,  and 
when  there  was  any  dispute,  Irene  would  say,  "Well,  I 
shall  speak  to  Uncle  Grubhofer."  She  knew  that  Karl 
and  Montague  were  both  frightened  of  him,  and  when 
there  was  no  food  and  no  money,  as  often  seemed  to  be 
the  case,  one  of  them  would  go  up  to  his  room,  and  they 


MECHANICAL  ACTIONS  21 

always  took  01  ga  with  them  for  some  reason  or  other, 
and  they  cringed  and  crawled  to  him.  And  then  Uncle 
Grubhofer  seemed  vaster  than  ever.  He  seemed  to  loom 
up  and  fill  the  awful  room.  He  would  shout  and  be  very 
angry,  and  in  the  end  would  give  them  a  small  piece  of 
silver,  for  which  they  had  to  write  on  a  piece  of  paper 
a  sort  of  confession.  And  then  he  would  talk  to  Olga 
in  a  terrifying  and  incomprehensible  way.  He  some- 
how gave  her  to  understand  that  she  was  in  the  w'orld  on 
sufferance.  That  she  enjoyed  all  its  delights  and  benefits 
solely  through  his  kindness,  that  her  father  had  been  a 
"shiftless  wastrel"  and  that  one  day  she  would  have  to 
atone.  He  made  her  feel  very,  very  wicked,  and  she 
would  wake  up  in  the  night  in  a  fever  of  terror,  believ- 
ing that  her  uncle  had  become  so  enormous  that  he  had 
filled  the  whole  world  and  there  was  no  air. 

Consequently  on  this  day  she  had  no  desire  to  be  taken 
up  to  Uncle  Grubhofer 's  room,  and  she  sat  stolidly  in 
the  corner  without  playing  or  moving.  After  a  time 
Irene  went  to  a  cupboard  and  cut  two  slices  of  bread. 
She  put  a  scrape  of  dripping  on  one  and  gave  Olga  the 
other, 

"You  won't  get  no  dripping  to-day,"  she  said  in  ex- 
planation,    "We  got  to  the  end  of  it," 

Olga  munched  her  bread  in  silence  for  she  was 
hungry,  and  she  watched  Irene  eating  hers  with  drip- 
ping, and  she  wondered  vaguely  why  if  there  was  enough 
dripping  for  one  piece  of  bread  Irene  should  have  it 
and  not  she.  It  occurred  to  her  to  make  some  protest, 
but  the  impulse  passed,  as  the  bread  gradually  took  the 
edge  off  her  appetite. 

She  was  so  tired  of  this  eternal  food  struggle.     For  up 


22  OLGA  BARDEL 

to  that  point,  food  had  been  the  dominating  thought  of 
her  life.  She  was  practically  always  hungry,  conse- 
quently her  mentality  was  bounded  by  the  desire  for 
food.  She  knew  it  was  the  same  with  Irene  and  Karl 
and  Montague.  They  fought  and  schemed  for  food. 
They  suspected  each  other  of  getting  food  on  the  quiet, 
they  begrudged  the  morsels  on  each  other's  plates,  and 
she  had  seen  Karl  and  Montague  fight  like  dogs  over  a 
piece  of  fish  one  morning  at  breakfast  time.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  to  wonder  about  this.  She  accepted  it 
as  the  normal  course  of  things.  She  presumed  that  it 
was  the  same  with  everybody  except  perhaps  Uncle 
Grubhofer,  and  he,  she  knew,  had  lots  of  food.  She  had 
heard  the  others  talking  about  it.  They  even  said  that 
he  sometimes  had  hot  meat  for  supper !  It  was  rumored 
that  he  kept  enormous  quantities  of  food  locked  away  in 
his  cupboard  upstairs,  but  he  had  never,  never  on  any 
occasion  asked  any  one  to  share  it  with  him.  She  knew 
as  a  matter  of  fact  that  very  often  when  he  was  out — 
and  he  would  sometimes  be  out  for  days  at  a  time — Irene 
would  steal  upstairs  and  creep  into  his  room  and  poke 
about.  Olga  did  not  know  whether  she  found  any  food 
there,  but  she  certainly  never  brought  any  down.  One 
day  Olga  followed  her  on  tiptoe  and  tried  to  see,  but 
Irene  had  shut  the  door.  She  came  out  rather  suddenly, 
and  Olga  had  the  idea  that  she  was  eating.  She  looked 
very  scared  and  angry  at  seeing  Olga,  and  slapped  her 
and  called  her  ''a  prying  little  brat"  and  worse  things. 
Other  people  lived  in  the  house  too,  but  they  were  all 
entirely  under  the  rule  of  Uncle  Grubhofer,  and  he  could 
turn  them  out  if  he  liked,  and  tell  them  never  to  re- 
turn. 


MECHANICAL  ACTIONS  23 

There  was  a  brass  plate  outside  the  door  that  told  you 
all  about  it.  On  it  was  written,  *' Julius  Grubhofer, 
agent  for  Ochs,  Boellman  &  Co.,  wire  springs  and  me- 
chanical actions."  Of  course  she  could  not  read,  and  no 
one  had  ever  read  this  out  to  her,  but  she  believed  it  was 
a  proclamation  that  drew  the  attention  of  the  world  to 
the  fact  that  Uncle  Grubhofer  was  a  person  of  tremen- 
dous importance.  Sometimes  other  important  people 
would  come,  and  they  would  go  up  to  Uncle  Grubhofer 's 
room  and  stop  there  a  long  time,  and  most  peculiar 
noises  came  from  there,  noises  that  excited  her  and  made 
her  want  to  brave  the  terrors  of  the  room  and  go  in  and 
see  what  it  was  that  caused  it.  But  this  she  knew  would 
be  courting  unspeakable  terrors.  And  then  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer would  go  out  with  the  other  important  people,  and 
sometimes  he  would  not  come  back  for  days.  And  then 
more  large  cases  would  arrive.  She  believed  he  went  out 
and  collected  food  and  it  was  brought  up  in  the  cases 
and  stored  awa}^  for  him.  But  what  was  it  that  made 
the  peculiar  noises? 

She  sat  in  the  gloomy  corner  of  the  room  and  pondered 
over  these  things,  and  then  she  suddenly  remembered 
a  fact  that  Irene  had  probably  forgotten.  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer had  gone  out  that  morning,  and  she  had  heard 
Irene  say  that  he  was  not  coming  back  till  to-night.  A 
sudden  idea  occurred  to  Olga.  She  watched  her  sister 
for  some  time  in  silence,  and  then  she  got  up  and  casu- 
ally left  the  room.  She  listened  outside  and  assured  her- 
self that  Irene  was  still  at  work,  and  then  she  crept 
upstairs.  Her  heart  was  beating  very  fast,  and  she 
felt  that  she  was  on  the  eve  of  some  tremendous  ad- 
venture.    She  arrived  outside  Uncle  Grubhofer 's  room. 


24  OLGA  BARDEL 

There  was  no  sound.  Uncle  Grubhofer  had  all  that 
floor  to  himself,  whilst  on  the  floor  above  lived  a  very 
kind  lady  they  called  ''Miss  Merson."  She  was  out  all 
day,  and  they  said  that  she  was  a  ''school  teacher." 
Whenever  she  passed  Olga  she  always  smiled  kindly  and 
had  once  given  her  a  biscuit,  and  patted  her  head  and 
called  her  "You  poor  queer  little  thing,"  She  would 
be  out  now,  so  there  would  be  no  one  at  all  in  this  part 
of  the  house.  She  put  her  hand  on  Uncle  Grubhofer 's 
door  handle.  She  felt  terribly  frightened  but  she 
thought  to  herself,  "It  won't  look  so  terrible  now.  It  's 
daylight. ' ' 

She  turned  the  handle  and  the  door  gave.  She  peeped 
in,  trembling  in  every  limb.  She  quite  expected  to  see 
Uncle  Grubhofer  there  after  all,  looking  larger  than 
ever  with  his  huge  devouring  eyes  on  her.  But  the  room 
was  apparently  empty.  She  left  the  door  open  so  that 
she  had  the  means  of  a  rapid  exit  at  hand  in  case  it 
were  needed.  She  crept  into  the  room  and  peered  round. 
She  went  on  tiptoe  and  looked  carefully  behind  all  the 
boxes  and  cases.  No!  there  was  not  the  slightest  sign 
of  life.  She  went  back  and  shut  the  door  very  quietly 
and  then  stood  by  it.  And  then  a  fearful  dread  came 
to  her.  She  was  all  alone  in  the  most  terrible  room  in 
the  world.  It  was  true  it  was  daylight,  but  there  were 
so  many  cupboards  and  boxes  and  most  of  them  locked, 
supposing  some  one  sprang  out!  She  stood  for  a  long 
time  by  the  door,  afraid  to  move.  And  then  she  began 
wondering  where  he  kept  the  food.  The  restless  spirit 
of  adventure,  born  of  the  torrid  day,  gave  her  a  new 
impulse.  She  tiptoed  across  the  floor  once  more.  There 
was  a  large  sort  of  cupboard  with  a  lot  of  small  drawers. 


MECHANICAL  ACTIONS  25 

She  tried  them.  They  were  all  locked.  She  tried  other 
boxes.  They  too  seemed  nailed  up  or  in  other  ways 
inaccessible.  At  last  she  found  one  box  lying  on  the 
floor  with  a  lid  that  had  been  apparently  wrenched  open 
and  was  lying  loose.  She  eagerly  looked  inside.  There 
was  no  food  there,  but  there  were  most  peculiar  looking 
things.  Very  long  coils  of  bright  wire  on  different 
metals  twisted  about  in  most  remarkable  ways.  She 
looked  at  them  and  thought  they  were  very  prett}''  but 
somehow  dangerous  looking.  Then  she  touched  them. 
She  found  that  certain  parts  of  them  made  sounds,  the 
sounds  varied  according  to  where  she  touched  them.  It 
was  a  glorious  discovery ! 

She  sat  on  the  floor  and  groped  among  the  straw,  pull- 
ing at  the  wires.  Some  of  the  sounds  were  most  melodi- 
ous and  pleasant,  and  others  less  so.  She  did  it  very 
quietly,  for  she  was  afraid  that  Irene  might  hear  her, 
and  she  waited  for  some  time  after  her  first  attempt. 
But  there  was  no  interruption.  Then  she  resumed.  She 
forgot  all  about  her  search  for  food.  She  became  ab- 
sorbed in  her  hunt  for  satisfying  sounds.  She  soon 
found  that  it  was  not  only  ivhere  she  touched  the  wires, 
but  the  way  in  which  she  touched  them  that  made  the 
different  sounds.  In  a  short  time  she  became  entirely 
engrossed.  It  was  an  entrancing  experience.  She  never 
thought  the  world  contained  such  joys.  She  discovered 
that  she  liked  plucking  some  of  the  wires  in  combination, 
and  tried  to  find  out  which  they  were  that  gave  her  so 
much  satisfaction.  She  lost  all  consciousness  of  time, 
when  suddenly  the  world  came  crashing  about  her  ears. 
A  door  slammed.  She  looked  up  and  realized  where  she 
was,  and  there  stood  Irene,  her  eyes  blazing! 


26  OLGA  BARDEL 

"You  little  devil!"  she  shrieked.  "What  do  you 
mean?"  A  heavy  hand  was  laid  on  her  shoulder,  and 
the  other  proceeded  to  deliver  chastisement  all  over  her 
body.  She  was  dragged  from  the  floor,  and  bundled 
out  of  the-  room.  "I  '11  teach  you,  you  little  swine ! ' ' 
cried  her  sister.  "Playing  with  Uncle  Grubhofer's 
things !  If  he  'd  come  in  and  caught  you,  it  would  have 
been  a  nice  thing,  would  n  't  it  ? " 

Olga  went  to  bed  that  night  sore  and  bruised  and 
hungry,  but  something  within  her  arose,  some  conscious 
force  struggling  to  soothe  her,  to  palliate  the  gods  of 
warring  oppression,  as  though  she  had  found  something 
that  the  others  could  not  take  from  her.  She  was  dimly 
conscious  at  some  strange  hour  of  the  night  of  seeing 
Karl  reel  into  the  room.  He  looked  very  ugly  by  the 
dim  light  of  the  gas  flare.  He  moved  about  in  a  spas- 
modic, jerky  fashion  and  breathed  heavily,  and  ate  a 
piece  of  cheese  that  he  found  in  the  cupboard.  He  sat 
on  her  bed  with  a  jerk,  and  took  his  boots  off  and  flung 
them  with  great  violence  and  excess  of  noise  on  the  bare 
boards.  Irene  woke  up  and  roared  at  him.  She  heard 
him  telling  Irene  in  a  thick  voice  "to  go  to  the  devil!" 
and  then  he  banged  out  of  the  room  and  went  down- 
stairs; for  he  and  Montague  slept  in  a  room  that  Olga 
had  occasionally  visited  in  the  basement.  She  heard 
Irene  muttering  to  herself  and  then  another  door  bang- 
ing downstairs.  And  then  things  quieted  down,  and 
Olga  became  conscious  of  the  astounding  beauty  of 
silence.  All  day  long  her  nerves  were  jarred  by  un- 
pleasant sounds  and  voices,  but  now  she  could  be  quite 
quiet,  and  it  was  very  nice  to  be  conscious  of  being  quiet. 
"  It  is  a  pity, ' '  she  thought,  ' '  that  people  make  unpleas- 


MECHANICAL  ACTIONS  27 

ant  noises."  And  then  through  her  mind  kept  running 
some  of  the  nice  sounds  she  had  made  with  the  strings. 
On  the  morrow  Irene  seemed  peculiarly  bad  tempered, 
and  food  was  grudgingly  administered  to  her.  She 
played  in  the  corner  and  on  the  staire  with  a  piece  of 
box,  and  the  colored  advertisement  of  lamp  shades  that 
served  as  toys.  But  they  did  not  amuse  her.  She  felt 
discontented  and  restless.  About  mid-day  she  heard  a 
door  bang,  and  footsteps  descending.  She  knew  that  it 
was  Uncle  Grubhofer  going  out.  She  darted  into  the 
room,  for  she  knew  that  Uncle  Grubhofer  disapproved  of 
"dirty  little  brats  playing  on  the  stairs."  She  peeped 
out  of  the  door  and  saw  him  go  down.  He  had  on  a 
long  black  coat  that  reached  to  his  knees,  and  a  hard 
round  black  hat,  and  in  his  hand  carried  a  small  square 
bag.  He  was  probably  going  to  visit  some  one  with  one 
of  those  nice  wire  things,  and  going  to  make  the  pleasant 
sounds  to  them.  She  wondered  profoundly  why  he 
should  do  this,  for  she  could  not  conceive  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer willingly  doing  anything  pleasant  to  any  one. 
Her  experience  of  the  world  prompted  her  to  imagine 
that  there  must  be  some  sort  of  reciprocal  arrangement. 
Perhaps  they  gave  him  food  in  exchange  for  his  making 
the  pleasant  noises.  She  knew  that  Uncle  Grubhofer 
had  talked  to  her  several  times  in  a  manner  that  some- 
how instilled  this  idea  into  her  mind.  People  did  things 
for  people  because  those  other  people  did  things  for 
them.  This  was  universal.  It  applied  to  every  one 
except  Olga,  who  did  nothing  and  was  entirely  useless 
and  unwanted.  In  this  way  she  was  very  wicked,  and 
her  defection  could  only  be  atoned  for  by  one  day 
making  it  up  by  doing  a  lot  of  things  for  other  people 


28  OLGA  BARDEL 

without  them  doing  anything  for  her.  She  was  always 
to  keep  that  in  mind. 

The  day  was  again  sultry  and  she  followed  him  down- 
stairs and  stood  on  the  pavement.  She  was  allowed  some- 
times to  play  down  there  by  the  iron  paling  that  railed 
off  a  deep  stone  area.  This  area  was  partially  covered 
in  by  a  broken  wire  netting  on  which  were  dirty  pieces  of 
paper  and  scraps  of  wood  and  empty  match  boxes. 
Nevertheless  she  could  see  through  it  sufficiently  well  to 
observe  two  very  dark  windows  covered  with  dust.  One 
of  them  was  open  a  little  way  at  the  bottom,  and  she 
could  see  the  corner  of  an  iron  bed  in  a  state  of  dishevel- 
ment,  and  the  corner  of  a  packing  case  on  which  stood 
a  broken  wash  basin  half  filled  with  water  that  some  one 
had  washed  in.  By  the  side  lay  a  piece  of  yellow  soap 
on  which  the  lather  had  set.  She  had  often  looked  into 
this  room  before ;  it  was  the  room  where  Karl  and  Mon- 
tague slept.  She  glanced  up  the  street.  As  far  as  she 
could  see  either  way  were  houses  exactly  like  the  one  she 
lived  in.  She  wondered  whether  they  all  belonged  to 
Uncle  Grubhofer.  She  looked  with  a  certain  pride  at 
the  brass  plate,  and  she  knew  it  caused  a  good  deal  of 
envy  among  the  swarms  of  children  who  passed  up  and 
down.  She  did  not  like  these  children,  and  she  knew 
that  they  did  not  like  her.  Many  of  them  knew  her  by 
name,  and  the  bigger  ones  used  to  tease  her,  and  call  her 
"monkey  face."  That  was  one  reason  why  nearly  all 
her  time  was  spent  in  the  room  instead  of  on  the  pave- 
ment.    These  children  terrified  her. 

Three  of  them  came  up  at  that  moment,  one  large  girl 
and  two  small  ones.  One  of  the  small  ones  had  a  sore 
place  on  her  upper  lip  that  extended  to  her  nostril,  and 


MECHANICAL  ACTIONS  29 

she  was  eating  a  piece  of  sausage.  They  all  three  were 
extremely  dirty  and  the  eldest  had  a  mouth  organ.  As 
they  passed,  this  girl  thrust  her  chin  forward  and  blew 
a  wild  cacophony  into  Olga's  ear.  The  sound  seemed  to 
go  right  through  her.  She  said,  "Don't!"  and  thrust 
her  arm  out.  At  this  successful  manifestation  of  having 
caused  serious  auno^^ance,  the  elder  girl  followed  it  up. 
She  put  her  face  close  to  Olga's  and  blew  for  all  she 
was  worth,  and  the  two  smaller  ones  chortled  with  de- 
light at  the  sport.  Olga  ran  away  but  the  elder  girl 
followed  her,  catching  hold  of  her  arm  and  blowing 
louder  and  louder.  Olga  saw  red.  She  suddenly  kicked 
the  elder  girl  on  the  shin,  and  at  the  same  moment 
made  a  wild  thrust  at  her  face,  and  managed  to  scratch 
it.  The  girl  screamed  and  rushed  at  her,  but  Olga  got 
to  the  door  in  time  and  slammed  it.  She  heard  her  op- 
pressor banging  on  the  door  and  screaming,  and  Olga 
huddled  on  the  stairs.  She  had  never  done  anj'thing  of 
that  sort  before,  and  she  was  very  shaken  and  frightened. 
The  elder  girl  soon  gave  up  her  assault,  but  Olga 
thought  perhaps  she  might  still  be  waiting  for  her.  "I 
shall  never  be  able  to  go  out  again,"  she  thought.  She 
sat  on  the  stairs  for  a  long  time  and  no  one  came  dowTi  or 
went  up.  She  felt  a  dread  of  going  back  to  the  room, 
and  she  dare  not  go  out  into  the  street.  Then  suddenly 
she  remembered  that  Uncle  Grubhofer  had  gone  out 
again.  She  felt  the  call  of  that  silent  room  upstairs,  and 
those  wonderful  things  that  made  nice  sounds.  She  de- 
bated the  pros  and  cons,  but  it  did  not  take  her  long  to 
decide;  and  somehow  Irene's  thrashings  never  seemed 
to  hurt  her  very  much.  A  certain  innate  cunning 
prompted  her  to  revisit  Irene  casually,  to  satisfy  herself 


30  OLGA  BAEDEL 

that  all  was  in  order,  and  then  she  crept  upstairs  again. 
This  time  the  room  did  not  terrify  her  so  much.  She 
shut  the  door  and  made  for  the  box.  It  was  still  there. 
In  a  few  minutes  she  was  indulging  in  the  delights  of 
yesterday.  But  alas!  they  were  shorter  lived.  Irene 
heard  her,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  she  was  receiv- 
ing another  buffeting.  ''I  '11  skin  you  alive,"  shrieked 
her  sister.  ' '  How  dare  you !  after  what  I  told  you  yes- 
terday ! ' ' 

Olga  bore  her  punishment  with  a  stoic  indifference. 
She  had  allowed  for  it,  when  setting  out  on  her  ad- 
venture. 

At  five  o'clock  that  same  afternoon,  Irene  found  her 
there  again !  The  matter  became  incomprehensible. 
What  could  she  do  beyond  thrashing  the  child?  She 
discussed  the  matter  with  Karl  and  Montague  that 
evening.  Karl  took  the  matter  in  hand.  He  told  Olga 
that  if  she  did  it  again,  he  would  deal  with  her.  Did 
she  realize  that  by  playing  the  fool  with  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer's  property  she  ran  the  risk  of  getting  the  whole 
family  turned  out?  or  in  any  case  of  having  to  buy  a 
key  for  the  room  which  would  cost  a  shilling?  Did  she 
understand  that?  He  supposed  she  thought  they  were 
all  millionaires  to  go  buying  keys.  And  if  a  key  had  to 
be  bought,  he  knew  who  would  have  to  pay  for  it.  So 
just  let  her  look  out ! 

The  next  morning  at  half-past  ten  Irene  found  Olga 
again  playing  with  Uncle  Grubhof er  's  ' '  wire  springs  and 
mechanical  actions." 

Karl  came  home  very  late  that  night  and  had  been 
drinking,  and  when  Irene  reported  the  matter  to  him 


MECHANICAL  ACTIONS  31 

he  thrashed  the  little  girl  with  such  frenzied  spite  that 
even  Irene  had  to  interfere. 

The  next  afternoon  Irene  was  at  work  when  suddenly 
she  heard  a  now  familiar  sound  of  wires  twanging.  She 
was  frightened.  She  could  not  understand.  She  could 
not  remember  any  previous  occasion  when  the  little 
ogre  had  positively  ignored  beatings  and  commands.  In 
some  curious  way  she  had  always  felt  a  little  frightened 
of  this  small  sister.  She  had  such  a  curious  way  of 
looking  at  one.  She  seemed  to  belong  to  some  other 
world,  and  Irene  had  never  got  over  her  resentment  at 
Olga's  arrival,  bringing  with  it  a  further  division  of 
already  much-divided  food.  She  was  nine  when  Olga 
was  born,  and  the  mothering  instinct  had  been  starved 
out  of  her,  while  the  disparity  in  their  ages  put  out  of 
court  any  communion  of  interests  in  common.  When 
she  heard  these  insistent  twangings  repeated  in  spite  of 
many  thrashings  and  threats,  she  had  a  sudden  instinct 
that  the  little  girl  had  brought  some  inevitable  and  un- 
comfortable element  into  her  life  that  would  never  be 
checked  except  by  death.  And  in  that  surmise  she  was 
not  entirely  incorrect.  She  jumped  up  and  went  to  the 
door  and  listened.  And  then  she  thought,  "I  will  let 
Uncle  Grubhof er  deal  with  this,  come  what  may ! ' ' 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Olga  had  a  free  and  glori- 
ous afternoon  and  evening.  She  found  another  case  that 
was  open  and  even  more  wonderful  things  and  wires  and 
metals.  She  forgot  all  about  Irene  and  Karl  and  the 
milk  which  she  usually  had  at  six  o'clock.  The  room 
was  getting  quite  dark,  and  she  had  found  a  more  won- 
derful thing  than  ever  that  had  deep  vibrant  tones  when 


32  OLGA  BARDEL 

struck  with  a  piece  of  wood.  It  gave  her  a  curious 
thrill  to  do  this,  and  to  listen  for  the  sound  as  it  came 
and  to  hear  it  die  away.  She  had  a  curious  desire  to 
see  the  sound.  She  w^ondered  what  became  of  it  after 
it  traveled  across  the  bare  floor  of  the  room.  Once  she 
struck  the  wire  louder  than  usual,  and  put  her  eye  close 
to  it  and  peered  after  the  vibration.  Her  eye  wandered 
across  the  room  and  suddenly  looked  full  into  the  eyes 
of  Uncle  Grubhofer,  She  screamed  and  jumping  up, 
rushed  towards  the  door.  Uncle  Grubhofer  did  not 
move  or  speak.  She  gripped  the  handle  and  turned  it. 
The  door  would  not  open,  and  the  key  was  gone !  She 
was  locked  in  alone  in  the  awful  room  with  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer. She  instinctively  turned  to  him.  His  small  eyes 
glittered  at  her  with  hard  malevolence,  but  he  said  noth- 
ing. The  little  girl  was  terribly  frightened.  "Let  me 
go !  Let  me  go  ! "  she  shrieked  as  though  he  were  hold- 
ing her  and  crushing  her.  She  tried  rapidly  to  imagine 
what  he  would  do.  In  the  riot  of  dread  that  followed 
she  remembered  one  thing,  that  was,  that  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer had  so  far  never  struck  her.  He  was  the  only  one 
of  them  all  who  hadn't,  and  yet  she  was  a  thousand 
times  more  frightened  of  him  than  of  all  the  others  put 
together.  Suddenly  he  said,  ' '  Come  here ! ' '  She  had 
no  power  to  resist.  She  remembered  the  remark  about 
the  boa-constrictor  and  she  was  sure  that  if  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer had  told  her  to  jump  into  his  mouth,  she  would 
have  done  so.  He  pointed  to  the  spot  on  the  floor  where 
she  was  to  stand,  and  then  he  rose  up  till  his  head  nearly 
reached  the  ceiling.  He  started  talking  and  walking. 
He  was  like  some  huge  animal  in  a  cage.  He  waved  his 
tremendously  long  arms  and  slouched  cumbrously  across 


MECHANICAL  ACTIONS  33 

the  floor.  When  he  came  to  the  wall  he  pulled  himself 
up  with  a  curious  jerky  movement,  as  though  he  had 
hurt  himself,  and  then  he  slouched  back.  As  he  passed 
her,  he  thrust  his  face  forward  toAvards  her,  and  showed 
his  yellow  teeth,  which  his  small  loose  mouth  seemed 
hardly  able  to  control.  His  eyes  rolled  with  anger  and 
hatred.  He  talked  wildly  and  incomprehensibly.  He 
talked  about  "property."  These  beautiful  things  it 
seemed  were  "property."  Property  was  the  most 
sacred  thing  in  the  world.  To  touch  the  property  of 
others  was  to  scorch  your  soul.  One  day  she  would  die. 
It  might  be  to-day  or  to-morrow,  and  then  she  would 
go  to  a  place  called  "Hell."  In  the  dull  room  fast  be- 
coming dark,  Uncle  Grubhofer  gave  her  a  vivid  word- 
picture  of  Hell.  It  seemed  to  be  a  place  specially  de- 
signed by  some  accommodating  Destiny  for  little  girls 
such  as  she.  It  was  a  place  of  swamps  and  darkness, 
much  worse  than  the  basement  where  Karl  and  Montague 
slept,  where  black  crawling  things  wriggled  over  you 
and  bit  you,  whilst  hairy  monsters  with  luminous  eyes 
hung  above  you  in  branches,  and  jeered  at  you.  This 
went  on  for  ever  and  ever  and  ever. 

In  the  meantime  he  produced  the  key.  For  the  rest 
of  her  time  on  earth,  the  awful  room  with  the  things 
that  made  beautiful  sounds  was  bolted  and  barred  to 
her.  That  night  Irene  heard  sobbing  at  intermittent 
intervals  coming  from  Olga's  corner.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  ever  heard  such  a  thing.  She  felt  an  in- 
creased respect  for  Uncle  Grubhofer,  but  it  did  not  en- 
tirely dissipate  her  uncomfortable  sense  of  fear  of  her 
small  sister. 


CHAPTER  II 


''scales" 


IRENE'S  antipathy  towards  her  sister  seemed  to 
increase.  She  made  the  room  almost  intolerable. 
At  the  same  time  the  child  was  afraid  to  go  on  to 
the  pavement  in  case  she  met  the  big  girl  with  the  mouth 
organ.  The  days  were  drawing  in  and  becoming  colder, 
so  the  staircase  with  its  drafts  and  darkness  was  not  a 
pleasant  playground.  Uncle  Grubhofer's  chamber  of 
magic  was  locked  to  her,  and  over  it  all  hovered  the  ter- 
rible vision  of  that  land  of  eternal  torments,  where  ''black 
things  crawled  and  bit,  and  hairy  monsters  jeered." 
She  had  known  so  little  of  affection  that  she  was  hardly 
conscious  of  an  innate  desire  for  it,  but  she  felt  very 
wretched.  In  addition,  the  food  seemed  scarcer  and 
more  irregular.  She  woitld  sometimes  get  to  such  a  low 
state  that  she  would  think  of  nothing  but  food.  Once  she 
stole  some  from  the  cupboard  while  Irene  was  out  of  the 
room,  but  this  led  to  more  violent  punishment  than  even 
her  misdemeanor  with  regard  to  Uncle  Grubhofer's 
"property."  Months  went  by,  and  she  became  phleg- 
matic and  indifferent,  and  she  had  periods  of  giddiness. 
One  day  she  was  standing  in  the  passage  down-stairs. 
It  was  past  her  bedtime,  but  she  had  been  "naughty," 
and  Irene  in  a  fit  of  temper  had  gone  out  and  left  her, 
telling  her  she  "could  shift  for  herself."     She  sat  on 

34 


"SCALES"  35 

the  bottom  stair,  and  shivered  for  a  long  time.  She 
never  remembered  having  been  up  so  late.  She  felt 
tired  and  faint.  She  heard  some  one  fumbling  at  the 
front  door  with  a  key.  An  awful  dread  came  to  her  that 
it  might  be  Uncle  Grubhofer.  She  stood  up  ready  to 
skurry  up-stairs.  As  she  clutched  the  banisters,  a  strange 
feeling  came  over  her  that  the  wall  and  the  ceiling  were 
going  up  and  up  and  up.  She  was  just  conscious  that 
the  door  opened,  and  little  j\Iiss  IMerson — who  lived  on 
the  top  floor — came  in.  She  heard  her  say:  "Oh,  you 
poor  mite!"  and  then  she  knew  no  more. 

When  she  came  to  herself  again  she  was  lying  on  a 
sofa  in  front  of  a  warm  fire,  and  ]\Iiss  Merson  was  giving 
her  something  hot  to  drink,  that  sent  a  glow  through  her. 
She  felt  very  comfortable  and  sleepy.  She  wondered 
what  had  happened.  It  all  seemed  very  strange.  Miss 
JMerson  stooped  over  her,  and  combed  her  hair.  When 
she  saw  Olga  looking  about,  she  said, 

"Well,  you  little  thing,  do  you  feel  better?"  Olga 
looked  at  the  kind,  gray  eyes,  and  nodded.  "That  's 
right,"  said  the  little  lady.  "You  stop  here  a  little 
while  and  rest.     Don't  you  bother  about  anything." 

This  arrangement  suited  Olga  admirably.  She  lay 
there  blinking  at  the  firelight.  Miss  Merson  went  to  a 
writing  desk,  lighted  a  lamp  that  had  a  shade,  and  sat 
down  and  wrote.  She  noted  how  quietly  I\Iiss  Merson 
did  this,  and  how  silently  she  moved  about  the  room. 
She  thought — "How  different  she  is  to  Irene!  Why  do 
people  always  make  a  noise?  Why  don't  they  move  like 
Miss  Merson?"  The  silence  was  delicious.  This  was 
evidently  the  room  they  called  "the  attic,"  at  the  top  of 
the  house  where  Miss  Merson  lived.    How  nice  it  must  be 


36  OLGA  BARDEL 

to  live  up  here  amidst  the  splendid  silence !  She  heard 
the  rhythmic  movement  of  IMiss  Merson's  pen,  and  occa- 
sionally the  dropping  of  a  cinder.  She  fell  asleep.  She 
had  a  troubled  dream  in  which  black  moving  objects  in 
waves  were  moving  towards  her,  but  some  one  was  thrust- 
ing them  back,  and  saying — "It 's  all  right,  it 's  all 
right ! "  At  last  the  same  voice  seemed  to  say  a  little 
louder:  "Now,  you  poor  mite,  I  'm  afraid  I  must  take 
you  back  to  your  own  people  or  they  will  wonder  what 
has  become  of  you !  Stay  here ;  I  '11  go  down  and  see  if 
your  sister  is  there.  She  was  n  't  half  an  hour  ago ! ' ' 
She  went  out  quietly.  When  the  door  had  shut  Olga 
burst  into  tears.  She  did  not  know  why,  and  she  strug- 
gled to  get  them  under  control  before  Miss  Merson's  re- 
turn. She  heard  talking  on  the  stairs  below,  and  the 
unmistakable  voice  of  Irene  in  a  harsh  crescendo.  The 
door  opened,  and  the  two  women  came  in. 

"What  's  been  the  matter  with  yer?"  said  Irene  in  a 
tone  suggesting  annoyance. 

"I  think  she  's  quite  run  down,"  answered  Miss  Mer- 
son  for  her.     "I  've  been  giving  her  some  hot  gruel ! ' ' 

' '  Run  down  ! ' '  exclaimed  Irene.  ' '  I  don 't  see  why  she 
need  be !  She  never  does  nothing  but  play. ' '  The  little 
basin  of  hot  gruel  still  stood  on  the  hob.  Irene  noticed 
it,  and  added :  "  If  she  had  to  work  like  I  do,  she  might 
be  run  down!"     She  sniffed  and  Miss  Merson  said: 

"Do  you  think  perhaps  she  had  better  stop  here 
to-night?" 

Irene  realized  that  she  was  not  going  to  be  offered  any 
of  the  gruel,  so  she  answered : 

"No;  I  think  she  'd  better  come  with  me.  We  can 
look  after  her  all  right,  thank  you. "     This  was  said  with 


"SCALES"  37 

a  certain  acerbity  that  was  not  lost  on  Miss  Merson,  who 
quickly  rejoined : 

"Of  course!  Of  course!  I  only  thought  it  might  be 
more  convenient  for  you,  and  more  restful  for  her,  not 
to  be  disturbed." 

"We  can  look  after  her  all  right,"  repeated  Irene  in  a 
sullen  voice.  She  pulled  Olga  into  a  sitting  posture  and 
said,  "Come  on." 

Olga  stood  up.  She  still  felt  very  shaky,  but  she  fol- 
lowed her  sister  to  the  door.  She  did  not  speak  or  look 
at  iliss  Merson  again,  but  she  was  conscious  that  that 
good  lady  was  helping  her  out  and  patting  her  arm. 
They  went  down  the  cold  staircase,  and  reentered  the 
room.  Montague  was  there,  and  asking  for  his  supper. 
She  stumbled  across  the  room  and  quickly  got  into  her 
bed.  She  shivered,  and  lay  awake  listening  to  the  un- 
pleasant noise  Montague  and  Irene  made  eating  their 
food,  and  they  had  no  sooner  iinished  than  Karl  came  in, 
and  it  all  started  over  again.  Karl  seemed  in  a  good 
temper,  and  very  talkative,  and  laughed  in  a  series  of 
mirthless  barks,  and  then  both  the  men  smoked  cigarettes 
and  made  the  room  very  choky.  Olga  thought  they 
would  never  finish  making  noises  and  smells,  but  at  last 
the  men  went  downstairs,  and  she  fell  into  fitful  slumber. 

The  next  day  food  had  no  attraction  for  her,  and  she 
was  feverish.  Miss  Merson  came  in  in  the  evening  to 
ask  how  she  was.  On  finding  out  how  the  land  lay,  she 
brought  down  a  white  powder  and  a  little  milk,  and  by 
exercising  great  tact  managed  to  get  Irene  to  allow  her 
to  administer  it.  That  night  Olga  slept  well,  in  spite  of 
everything,  and  spent  the  next  day  thinking  of  her  new 
friend  and  the  silent  room.     A  great  temptation  came  to 


38  OLGA  BARDEL 

her.  Miss  Merson  was  out  all  day.  Why  should  she  not 
steal  up  and  sit  in  her  room?  But  somehow  it  seemed 
different  doing  anything  like  that  to  Miss  Merson.  She 
was  bundled  to  bed  before  the  little  schoolmistress  came 
home,  and  she  did  not  see  her  for  several  days. 

And  then  a  great  and  eventful  day  arrived.  Tt  was  a 
day  called  Sunday,  a  day  that  she  always  dreaded  and 
loathed,  because  it  meant  that  Karl  and  Montague  were 
in  and  out  all  day  with  their  horrible  smoke  and  noise, 
and  Irene  didn't  do  any  work,  and  seemed  in  conse- 
quence to  be  more  cantankerous.  It  is  true  that  some- 
times on  these  days  food  seemed  to  be  more  plentiful — 
there  was  sometimes  meat  in  the  middle  of  the  day — and 
on  one  or  two  occasions  Montague  had  taken  her  for  a 
stroll  round  the  streets.  But  these  dubious  benefits  were 
more  than  counteracted  by  the  noise  and  general  irrita- 
bility of  the  people  in  the  room,  and  the  peculiar  strained 
atmosphere  of  the  streets.  It  was  as  though  on  the  week 
days  the  people  were  all  doing  things  and  forgot  their 
wretchedness,  but  on  Sunday  they  stopped,  stared  at  each 
other,  and  brooded  over  the  patent  misery  of  their  lives. 
They  seemed  conscious  of  their  clothes,  their  houses,  their 
friends,  and  their  baser  desires.  Olga  did  not  analyze 
these  feelings  if  she  went  out  for  a  walk  with  Montague, 
but  she  felt  that  she  disliked  Sundays,  and  all  that  apper- 
tained thereto. 

On  this  particular  Sunday,  Karl  and  Montague  had 
gone  out  together  after  a  late  and  clamorous  breakfast, 
leaving  a  trail  of  tobacco  and  kipper  smell,  and  Irene  was 
washing  up  with  a  tremendous  clatter,  and  singing  in  a 
harsh  and  dreary  voice,  when  there  was  a  tap  at  the 
door.     Irene  went  to  it,  and  Olga  heard  Miss  Merson 's 


<  < 


SCALES"  39 


voice.  Irene  went  outside,  and  a  conversation  which  she 
could  not  hear  went  on  for  some  minutes.  At  last  Irene 
returned,  continued  washing  up,  and  then  turning  to 
Olga,  she  said :  * '  Here,  you  're  going  to  have  your  dinner 
upstairs!"  She  caught  hold  of  her,  and  made  a  tenta- 
tive effort  at  washing  her  neck.  Her  hair  was  hastily 
brushed,  and  she  was  pushed  outside  and  told  to  go  up  to 
I\Iiss  Merson's  attic,  and,  "Mind  yer  don't  fall  down  the 
stairs  and  break  yer neck. ' ' 

Olga  pulled  herself  together  in  the  passage,  and  the 
news  seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  She  could  hardly 
bring  herself  to  set  forth  on  such  a  dazzling  adventure. 
She  went  up  the  first  flight  of  stairs  very  gingerly,  and 
then  a  sudden  dread  that  Irene  or  Uncle  Grubhofer 
might  appear  to  drag  her  back  caused  her  to  hurry  on. 
She  reached  the  top,  and  never  having  been  instructed 
in  the  convention  of  knocking  on  a  door  she  just  opened 
it  and  walked  in.  Miss  Merson  was  writing  at  her  desk. 
"Ah,  there  you  are!"  was  her  greeting,  and  she  got  up 
and  came  over  and  kissed  her,  then  shut  the  door.  Olga 
said  nothing,  but  gladness  shone  from  her  face. 

"Now  come  and  sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 
Miss  Merson  made  her  comfortable  on  the  couch  in  front 
of  the  fire  and  gave  her  an  apple.  It  was  an  entrancing 
morning.  Miss  Merson  read  her  a  book,  showed  her  pic- 
tures, and  opened  out  a  new  world  to  her.  It  was  a 
world  of  fairies  and  sunshine  and  princesses,  where 
people  all  moved  quietly,  and  did  things  quietly,  just 
like  ]Miss  Merson  did.  She  was  sure  of  that.  Then  she 
asked  her  questions  about  herself,  which  she  could  not 
answer.  She  did  not  know  how  old  she  was.  She  could 
not  remember  her  mother.     She  did  not  know  what  her 


40  OLGA  BARDEL 

brothers  did  in  the  daytime.  No  one  had  ever  taught  her 
anything.  She  did  not  know  her  alphabet.  To  most  of 
Miss  Merson's  questions  she  just  shook  her  head.  But 
she  tried  to  say  something  about  her  father.  This  mat- 
ter obviously  upset  her,  so  Miss  Merson  quickly  changed 
the  subject.  And  then  after  a  time  Miss  Merson  spread 
a  cloth  on  a  small  table,  and  they  sat  down  and  had  most 
wonderful  things  to  eat.  She  felt  too  excited  to  eat 
much,  but  Miss  Merson,  instead  of  being  pleased  at  this, 
as  the  others  would  have  been,  seemed  quite  upset,  and 
insisted  on  her  having  everything  there  was.  After  this 
they  sat  cozily  by  the  fire  again  and  talked,  and  had 
another  story.  But  the  most  amazing  and  fascinating 
event  was  yet  to  occur.  After  a  time  Miss  Merson 
went  to  a  curious-looking  piece  of  furniture  and  opened 
a  lid  on  it,  and  revealed  a  long  row  of  flat,  yellow-white 
things,  with  black  things  raised  up  at  different  intervals 
between  them.  She  struck  these  black  and  white  things 
with  her  hands,  and  most  wonderful  sounds  came  forth. 
She  looked  round,  and  caught  the  intent,  eager  expres- 
sion on  the  child's  face,  and  laughed, 

''Oh!  you  quaint  thing!"  she  said.  She  went  to  a 
box  and  got  some  music,  and  put  it  on  the  piano.  And 
then  she  put  on  some  spectacles. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  can  play  this,"  she  said. 
"I  'm  no  performer,  but  I  '11  try."  Then  Miss  Merson 
sat  down.  She  certainly  was  no  pianist,  but  she  loved 
music,  and  she  managed  to  give  performances  of  some  of 
the  easier  pieces  of  Schumann  and  Chopin  in  a  manner 
that  gave  pleasure  to  herself  in  any  ease.  She  played 
for  about  half  an  hour,  almost  forgetting  the  little  girl. 
Then  she  looked  round.     Olga  was  sitting  on  the  edge 


(< 


SCALES"  41 


of  the  sofa,  leaning  forward,  her  large  gray  eyes  sunk  in 
the  hollow  of  her  chubby  pale  face,  reflecting  the  riot  of 
emotion  that  flooded  her  small  soul  through  this  new 
world  of  melody.  "Oh,  you  queer  little  thing!"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Merson,  and  she  jumped  up  and  kissed  her. 
And  then  Olga  broke  forth  into  a  torrent  of  weeping. 
She  did  not  know  why.  She  simply  felt  that  she  must 
hang  on  to  the  kind  lady  and  cry  and  cry. 

' '  Oh,  you  poor  mite !  What  is  it  then  ? ' '  Miss  Mer- 
son pressed  the  little  girl  to  her  bosom.  She  felt  strange 
emotions  stirring  within  herself.  She  asked  her  why  she 
cried,  but  she  already  knew,  and  the  knowledge  seemed 
to  her  pregnant  with  significance.  She  looked  at  the 
little  girl  in  a  new  light.  It  was  certainly  remarkable. 
She  said  she  would  not  play  any  more,  and  she  made  Olga 
lie  on  the  couch  again,  and  made  her  some  tea.  It  was  a 
very  nice  tea.  They  had  bread  and  butter  and  jam  and 
a  cake,  and  they  laughed  and  talked  about  all  sorts  of 
things.  Miss  Merson  did  not  refer  to  the  piano  again, 
and  after  tea  she  took  her  back  to  her  famil3^  She 
wanted  to  think  a  little  by  herself. 

On  the  following  evening  Miss  Merson  gave  Irene 
some  apples  that  she  said  had  been  sent  her  from  the 
country,  and  also  a  cheese.  Irene  was  very  surprised, 
but  she  took  the  things,  her  greed  dominating  her  sus- 
picions. She  did  not  like  the  schoolmistress  and  was 
jealous  of  her  attentions  to  Olga,  but  food  was  another 
matter.  Miss  Merson  insisted  on  being  friendly,  in  spite 
of  indifference  and  insult,  and  she  soon  realized  Irene's 
weak  point.  She  flattered  her,  and  gave  her  food.  She 
even  endured  having  her  in  to  tea  one  day,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  week  was  almost  in  her  good  books.     She  got 


42  OLGA  BARDEL 

possession  of  Olga  for  the  following  Sunday,  and  in  a 
matter  of  fact  way  showed  the  little  girl  how  to  strike 
the  notes  of  the  piano  in  rotation,  and  then  how  to  play 
a  little  scale,  by  turning  her  thumb  under.  She  noticed 
how  quick  she  was  to  do  as  she  w^as  told,  and  how  well 
she  remembered.  She  wanted  to  play  all  day  long,  but 
Miss  Merson  insisted  on  the  fairy  story,  and  on  meals, 
and  talk.  Before  she  went  that  evening  ]\Iiss  Merson 
said  casually:  "You  may  come  up  here  any  time  you 
like,  dear,  when  I  am  out.  You  might  like  to  play  your 
little  scales." 

When  she  got  down-stairs  Irene  asked  her  what  she 
had  had  to  eat.  She  seemed  rather  vague  about  it,  and 
Irene's  jealousy  was  once  more  aroused,  until  Miss  Mer- 
son arrived  later  and  brought  her  a  small  pie. 

"It  's  very  curious,"  thought  Irene.  She  wondered 
what  the  game  was.  People  of  her  acquaintance  did  not 
give  each  other  food  without  getting  anything  in  ex- 
change. Olga  disappeared  early  the  next  morning,  and 
Irene  traced  her  up  to  the  attic  playing  on  Miss  Merson 's 
piano.  The  child  put  up  her  defense  that  Miss  Merson 
had  told  her  she  might.  Irene  was  angry,  and  then 
realized  that  after  all  it  kept  the  little  brat  out  of  her 
way,  so  she  allowed  her  to  remain. 

Visions  of  glorious  days  floated  before  Olga.  She 
climbed  on  to  the  stool  and  struggled  with  the  notes. 
She  had  been  there  about  an  hour,  when  the  door  burst 
open  and  Uncle  Grubhofer  appeared.  He  was  in  one  of 
his  most  devouring  moods.  What  was  she  doing  there 
making  that  confounded  row — she  must  clear  out  at  once  ! 
If  Miss  Merson  encouraged  her  in  this  fooling  she  would 
be  thrown  out  on  to  the  pavement,  piano  and  all.     The 


II 


SCALES"  43 


world  came  crashing  about  Olga's  ears.  She  knew  that 
resistance  was  useless.  She  shut  the  piano  lid,  climbed 
down  from  the  stool,  and  went  silently  out  of  the  room. 
She  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning  down  by  the  front  door, 
heaving  with  remorse  and  the  sense  of  outrage.  She 
felt  like  going  out  of  the  front  door  and  running  away — 
anywhere,  never  to  return.  It  is  more  than  likely  that 
she  would  have  put  some  such  action  into  force  had  it 
not  been  for  the  restraining  knowledge  that  ]\Iiss  Merson 
would  be  back  in  the  evening,  and  also  a  sudden  recol- 
lection that  Uncle  Grubhofer  went  out  sometimes  for 
days  together.  She  would  watch,  and  wait  for  him  to  go. 
She  kept  up  her  ceaseless  vigil  for  three  days,  and 
at  length  one  morning  she  saw  him  going  off  with  his 
little  square  bag.  The  front  door  had  hardly  slammed 
before  she  darted  up,  and  clambered  to  her  stool.  She 
waited  for  some  time  in  fear  lest  he  should  return,  and 
then  she  lifted  the  piano  lid.  But  she  felt  distracted, 
the  pall  of  Uncle  Grubhofer  was  over  everything,  no- 
where seemed  sacred  from  him.  She  felt  the  heavy 
gloom  of  his  disapproval  frowning  across  the  keys. 
She  knew  she  was  being  very  wicked,  and  that  one  day 
she  would  have  to  atone  for  it.  The  stolen  fruits  from 
this  mystic  box  would  have  a  terrible  reaction.  She 
made  attempts  to  practise,  and  then  kept  on  leaving  off, 
and  listening.  At  last  she  felt  too  frightened  to  con- 
tinue, and  went  and  sat  on  the  sofa.  She  became  con- 
scious of  another  quality  in  this  attic.  It  was  so  clean. 
There  was  very  little  furniture,  but  it  all  seemed  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  room  down-stairs.  It  smelt  differently, 
looked  different,  and  felt  different.  She  wondered 
whether  there   were   other   rooms  like   this  and   other 


44  OLGA  BARDEL 

people  like  Miss  Merson;  whether,  in  fact,  there  was  a 
world  beyond  these  dismal  walls. 

After  a  time  a  new  courage  came  to  her,  and  she  went 
back  to  the  piano.  The  nature  of  her  environment 
gradually  bred  in  Olga  certain  mild  forms  of  cunning. 
It  w^as  as  though  some  race  instinct  were  fighting  to 
assert  itself,  and  we  must  remember  that  she  came,  how- 
ever remotely,  from  Jewish  stock — that  stock  which  has 
proved  itself  to  have  the  life  instinct  more  keenly  de- 
veloped than  any  other.  She  showed  this  cunning  in 
various  subconscious  methods  of  preserving  her  health 
in  spite  of  malnutrition  and  bad  air,  in  being  able  to  put 
on  a  sort  of  armor  of  stoic  indifference  when  swayed  by 
some  emotion  that  threatened  to  overwhelm  her.  But 
in  no  way  did  this  instinct  of  cunning  assert  itself  more 
forcibly  than  that  by  which  she  managed  to  make  use 
of  Miss  Merson 's  piano  in  spite  of  all  obstacles.  She 
developed  an  almost  psychic  sense  of  when  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer  would  go  out  and  return.  She  overcame  Irene  by 
sheer  importunity  and  indifference  to  punishment,  and 
she  even  sometimes  feigned  amusement  at  the  preposter- 
ous antics  of  her  brother  Karl,  In  the  meantime  she 
played  scales  and  exercises,  and  Miss  Merson  helped  her. 
Nearly  every  Sunday  she  devoted  at  least  part  of  the 
day  to  her,  and  occasionally  in  the  weektime  she  would 
arrive  home  a  little  earlier,  and  she  knew  that  the  little 
girl  would  be  on  the  look-out. 

She  was  amazed  at  the  rapidity  with  which  Olga 
grasped  the  first  principles,  and  the  intense  way  she 
concentrated  on  whatever  she  undertook.  In  a  few 
months'  time  she  was  playing  little  pieces  on  Miss  Mer- 
son 's  tinkley  piano,  and  was  giving  that  good  lady  much 


ti 


SCALES"  45 


food  for  thought.  One  Sunday  she  played  a  tiny  piece 
of  Scarlatti,  which  she  had  learnt  from  memory.  It  was 
so  musical  and  good  that  after  she  had  gone,  Miss  Mer- 
son  thought  for  a  long  time,  and  then  she  sat  do^vn  and 
wrote  a  letter.  It  was  addressed  to  a  Miss  Kenway  at 
an  address  in  Kensington.     The  letter  was  as  follows : 

My  dear  Miss  Kenway: 

I  want  to  ask  your  advice.  There  is  a  little  girl  living  in  this 
house  whom  I  suspect  of  having  talent.  She  is  the  quaintest 
thing  you  ever  saw,  but  her  family  are  deplorable.  The  father 
and  mother  are  both  dead.  I  understand  that  the  mother  drank, 
and  the  father  was  a  small  jobbing  tailor.  I  believe  there  were 
nine  or  ten  children,  but  they  all  died  except  four,  two  appalling 
brothers,  a  dreadful  sister,  and  this  little  girl.  They  are, 
of  course,  desperately  poor,  and  there  is  a  sort  of  Bluebeard  of 
an  uncle — the  mother's  brother,  I  think — who  helps  to  support 
them. 

I  cannot  find  a  gleam  of  talent,  intelligence,  or  common  de- 
cency in  any  of  them  except  this  child.  I  should  be  awfully  glad 
if  you  could  meet  her.  I  think  she  would  interest  you.  Might 
I  bring  her?  or  would  it  be  asking  you  too  much  to  ask  you  to 
visit  this  slum  on  Sunday  afternoon?  I  might  find  it  difficult  to 
bring  her  to  you,  as,  if  the  family  heard  of  it,  they  would  prob- 
ably try  and  stop  my  bringing  her,  out  of  sheer  devilry.  Will 
you  drop  me  a  card? 

Yours  affectionately, 

Eleanob  Mebson. 

On  the  following  Sunday  Olga  peeped  into  another 
world  of  romantic  visions.  She  had  played  her  exer- 
cises and  her  Scarlatti  to  ]\Iiss  Merson,  and  tliej^  had  had 
a  nice  talk  about  kings  and  cities  and  peoples,  when  there 
was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Miss  ]\Ierson  jumped  up  and 
opened  it,  and  in  floated  a  most  radiant  vision.  She 
was  tall,  taller  than  IMiss  Merson,  and  she  was  radiant 


46  OLGA  BARDEL 

with  health  and  nice  clothes  and  cleanliness.  Olga  had 
never  seen  two  people  behave  like  that  when  they  met. 
They  kissed  and  called  each  other  "dear"  and  asked 
how  each  other  was  in  a  way  that  showed  that  they 
really  wanted  to  know.  Then  they  turned  to  her,  and 
Miss  Merson  said,  "This  is  Olga."  And  the  beautiful 
vision  smiled  at  her,  and  said,  "Well,  Olga,  how  are 
you?"  Olga  was  too  dazzled  to  answer,  but  she  tried  to 
smile  back  some  sort  of  response.  Then  the  two  women 
sat  down  and  talked  about  her  in  a  nice,  kindly  frank 
way,  and  the  vision  asked  her  questions  without  expect- 
ing any  answer.  It  was  all  done  in  such  a  way  that  she 
did  not  feel  uncomfortable.  Then  Miss  Merson  asked 
her  to  play  her  little  Scarlatti.  It  seemed  a  very 
natural  thing  to  do,  so  she  w^ent  to  the  piano  and  played 
it  as  well  as  she  could.  In  the  meantime  the  two  women 
carried  on  a  telepathic  conversation.  They  smiled  at 
the  frail  little  figure  with  the  fat  podgy  arms  frowning 
with  intense  earnestness  at  the  keys.  Now  and  then 
when  the  rhythm  was  particularly  good,  ]\Iiss  Kenway 
would  raise  her  eyebrows  with  approval,  and  Miss  Mer- 
son would  nod  at  her.  When  she  played  a  finger  pas- 
sage with  unusual  brilliance,  their  eyes  would  meet  again, 
and  both  women  would  laugh.  When  she  had  finished 
Miss  Kenway  said,  "Thank  you,  Olga,  that  's  very  nice 
indeed."  They  made  her  sit  between  them  and  had  an- 
other long  talk.  The  conversation  w-as  mysterious,  but 
seemed  full  of  portentous  promises.  She  felt  a  new 
world  dawning  for  her. 

There  was  a  lot  of  talk  about  "Mr.  Casewell"  and  other 
names,  and  constant  references  to  "Levitch  himself." 
There  seemed  to  be  a  thing  called  a  "method"  that  re- 


"SCALES"  47 

quired  a  lot  of  discussion,  also  veiled  and  guarded  refer- 
ences to  her  family.  Olga  could  not  follow  much  of  it, 
so  she  sat  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  feeling  very 
elated.  She  realized  for  the  first  time  that  Miss  Merson 
must  be  very  old.  She  had  almost  white  hair.  She  had 
not  noticed  it  till  then.  But  the  contrast  was  very  strik- 
ing. The  other  lady  had  lovely,  golden-brown  hair, 
tucked  away  under  a  hat  the  like  of  which  she  had 
never  seen.  And  then  she  had  the  most  lovely  com- 
plexion, clear  and  pink.  Everything  about  her  seemed 
to  exude  an  atmosphere  of  "cleanliness"  and  exuberant 
health.  She  smelt  different  from  anything  she  had  come 
against  before.  After  a  time  she  rose  and  kissed  Miss 
Merson.  She  patted  Olga's  hands,  but  Olga  noticed  that 
she  did  not  kiss  her.  There  was  another  long  talk  at 
the  door,  and  at  last  she  went. 

The  room  down-stairs  seemed  more  than  usually  un- 
pleasant that  evening,  and  it  was  not  improved  by  the 
advent  of  two  young  men  friends  of  Karl  who  played 
cards  with  her  brothers  and  smoked  innumerable  ciga- 
rettes. Irene  had  gone  out  for  the  evening.  One  of  the 
young  men  tried  to  be  amused  with  her,  and  called  her 
"monkey,"  and  pulled  her  hair.  She  did  not  like  him, 
and  made  herself  as  quiet  and  inconspicuous  as  possible. 
She  went  to  bed  without  undressing,  and  later  on  Irene 
came  home  with  another  young  man.  This  led  to  an 
incredible  amount  of  noise  and  laughter.  They  all 
seemed  to  be  there  all  night.  She  dozed,  but  was  con- 
stantly awakened  by  the  bark  of  Karl,  and  a  snuffling 
guffaw  of  another  of  the  young  men,  mingled  with  a 
sort  of  wheezy  giggle  that  Irene  developed.  She  could 
not  recollect  having  heard  Irene  giggle  before,  and  she 


48  OLGA  BARDEL 

wondered  why  she  should  do  so  to-night.  In  a  half- 
conscious  state  she  wondered  whether  the  beautiful  lady 
she  had  seen  that  afternoon  was  only  a  dream,  or 
whether  these  people  were  all  a  dream.  ...  It  seemed 
impossible  that  they  could  all  be  real  people  in  the  same 
world.  .  .  . 

A  few  days  later  she  had  the  most  impressive  experi- 
ence that  her  small  life  had  so  far  undergone.  She  was 
fetched  in  a  thing  called  a  "hansom-cab."  She  knew 
there  was  something  in  the  wind.  For  Miss  Merson  had 
had  several  interviews  with  Irene,  during  which  she  had 
been  sent  out  of  the  room.  And  then  Irene  seemed  to 
have  a  sufficiency  of  food,  and  to  be  fairly  good  tem- 
pered. In  addition  to  this.  Miss  Merson  made  her  a 
clean,  cotton  frock.  And  by  a  superhuman  effort  she 
had  had  Olga's  face  and  neck  washed,  on  that  particular 
morning.  Miss  Merson  was  not  there  when  the  great 
event  happened,  but  the  beautiful  person  of  the  previous 
Sunday  herself  appeared.  There  was  a  few  minutes' 
conversation  with  Irene,  and  then  they  went  down-stairs. 
Quite  a  crowd  of  children  had  collected  to  see  the  cab,  for 
it  was  a  unique  sight  in  that  neighborhood.  As  she  was 
being  put  in,  she  heard  one  girl  ask,  ' '  Is  she  being  taken 
to  the  'orspital?" — for  that  indeed  was  the  only  purpose 
to  which  such  luxuries  seemed  applicable.  Olga  glanced 
at  the  crowd,  and  hoped  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  to 
see  the  girl  with  the  mouth  organ.  But  to  her  disap- 
pointment she  was  not  there.  The  general  consterna- 
tion, however,  was  in  some  way  gratifying. 

They  dashed  forth  at  a  furious  speed,  scattering  the 
jeering  children  right  and  left.  In  less  than  five  min- 
utes  she    had   reached    neighborhoods    hitherto    unsus- 


"SCALES"  49 

pected.  She  was  rather  frightened  at  the  way  they 
dashed  round  the  corners,  and  in  and  out  of  the  traffic, 
but  Miss  Kenway  talked  to  her  calmly  as  though  it  were 
quite  an  ordinary  experience. 

They  reached  a  broad  river  at  last,  alive  with  ships  and 
barges.  She  had  hardly  time  to  glance  at  it  before  they 
rattled  across  it  over  an  iron  bridge.  Then  the  world 
seemed  to  assume  a  different  character.  There  were 
thousands  of  bright  shops,  and  people  seemed  gayer  and 
better  looking.  They  wound  in  and  out  along  dazzling 
streets  and  open  spaces,  and  passed  endless  other  cabs 
and  carriages  of  incredible  size  and  variety.  At  last 
they  pulled  up  suddenly  at  a  tall  house  in  a  quiet  street. 
They  got  out  and  rang  a  bell,  and  immediately  a  boy  in 
buttons  opened  the  door.  They  went  in  and  were  shown 
up-stairs.  She  heard  a  piano  being  played  by  some  one 
with  tremendous  brilliance  whilst  they  waited  for  some 
time  in  a  bright,  clean  room.  After  a  time  a  girl  came 
out  of  the  room  with  a  leather  case,  followed  by  a  young- 
ish, good-looking  man  with  gold  glasses.  On  seeing  Miss 
Kenway  he  said,  "Ah,  good  morning,  Anna!"  and  Miss 
Kenway  said,  "How  are  you,  John?  This  is  the  little 
girl  I  spoke  of — Olga  Bardel." 

The  young  man  smiled  at  her  kindly,  and  shook  her 
hand  and  said.  "How  are  you,  Olga?"  What  a  won- 
derful world  this  was!  Everybody  seemed  so  nice  to 
everybody  else.  They  went  into  the  next  room  which 
was  almost  bare  except  that  it  had  a  most  peculiar  look- 
ing piano,  low  and  flat  and  very  large,  not  at  all  like 
Miss  Merson's. 

"Now,  what  will  you  play  to  me?"  said  the  young 
man  in  a  brisk  tone.     She  only  had  her  one  piece,  and 


50  OLGA  BARDEL 

she  sat  down  and  solemnly  played  it.  When  she  had 
finished  the  young  man  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
loudly,  and  slapped  his  leg.  "Well!  well!  well!"  was 
his  only  comment.  She  did  not  know  why  the  young 
man  laughed,  but  he  seemed  so  kind  she  was  sure  he  did 
not  mean  to  be  rude.  He  turned  to  Miss  Kenway,  and 
another  conversation  went  on  very  similar  to  that  which 
had  taken  place  between  Miss  Kenway  and  Miss  Merson. 
There  was  the  same  discussion  about  "methods"  and  in- 
numerable references  to  "Levitch  himself."  One  fact 
seemed  to  be  established,  and  that  was  that  it  was  no 
good  ' '  Levitch  himself ' '  hearing  her  just  yet.  They  then 
retired  to  a  corner  and  whispered  together,  and  Olga 
thought  she  heard  Miss  Kenway  say,  "Her  people,  my 
dear,  are  simply  hopeless."  After  a  time  they  went, 
the  young  man  again  shaking  her  hand,  and  saying, 
"Well,  good-by,  Olga;  we  shall  meet  again."  Then  they 
got  into  another  cab  and  drove  to  a  wonderful  house 
in  a  square  overlooking  a  garden.  Miss  Kenway  opened 
the  door  with  her  own  key  and  they  went  into  a  bril- 
liant hall.  Miss  Kenway  seemed  to  expect  her  to  wash 
again,  though,  as  she  had  already  washed  that  morning, 
it  was  rather  surprising.  The  washing  here  seemed  to 
take  on  something  of  the  nature  of  a  religious  ceremony. 
There  was  a  room  full  of  marble  basins  with  silver 
taps  and  lots  of  different  soaps  and  rows  of  quite  clean 
towels. 

After  all  this  they  went  into  a  gorgeous  room  where  an 
old  lady  in  gold  glasses  was  reading  a  book.  Miss  Ken- 
way introduced  her  and  the  old  lady  looked  at  her  and 
said,  ' '  My  goodness  gracious,  Anna  !  What  will  you  do 
next?"     Miss  Kenway  laughed,  and  they  went  into  an- 


"SCALES"  51 

other  room  and  sat  at  a  table  where  two  ladies  in  clean 
white  aprons  handed  them  most  incredibly  lovely  things 
to  eat.  It  was  all  rather  overpowering,  the  smell  of 
"cleanness"  and  the  things  you  had  to  use  to  eat  the  food 
with,  and  the  two  ladies  hovering  at  your  elbow,  and 
then  the  old  lady  constantly  looking  at  her  and  mutter- 
ing, "My  goodness  gracious!" 

Olga  was  hungry,  but  too  bewildered  and  excited  by 
the  pageant  going  on  around  her.  It  was  true  then ! 
There  was  a  world  where  people  moved  quietly  and  spoke 
kindly,  and  where  Uncle  Grubhofer  did  not  hold  sway, 
and  this  world  was  holding  out  infinite  possibilities  to 
her.  These  people  had  invited  her  into  it,  and  been  kind 
to  her.  After  the  meal,  Miss  Kenway  made  her  lie  down 
on  a  couch  up-stairs,  for  two  hours.  But  when  they 
left  her  she  was  too  excited  to  rest.  She  kept  on  getting 
up  and  looking  out  of  the  window,  and  touching  the 
objects  in  the  room.  She  felt  an  irresistible  desire  to 
sing  and  talk. 

At  length  one  of  the  ladies  who  had  waited  at  table 
tapped  on  the  door  and  came  in.  She  called  her  "miss" 
and  said  Miss  Kenway  had  had  to  go  out,  but  she  (the 
lady  herself)  was  to  take  her  in  a  cab  back  to  her  home. 
She  was  very  tall  and  stiff  and  not  apparently  much  of 
a  talker,  but  when  they  got  into  the  cab,  Olga  broke 
forth  into  a  torrent  of  eloquence,  the  like  of  which  she 
had  never  indulged  in  before  in  her  life.  She  chatted 
interminably,  and  was  quite  satisfied  for  the  tall  lady  to 
say  occasionally,  "Yes,  miss."  The  brilliant  shops  and 
gay  traffic  flashed  by,  and  Olga  kept  sa^'ing  "Look! 
look!"  This  was  the  dominant  instinct  that  possessed 
her — to  see  this  great  world,  or  rather  to  convince  her- 


52  OLGA  BARDEL 

self  that  she  was  seeing  it,  and  that  it  was  real.  She  felt 
that  in  a  flash  she  had  peered  through  the  veil  of  dreary 
circumstance  that  had  always  enveloped  her,  and  she 
wanted  to  engrave  this  vision  deeply  on  her  memory. 

When  the  cab  turned  a  sudden  corner  and  she  recog- 
nized a  vista  of  gray  unloveliness  wherein  her  home  was 
set,  she  struggled  against  the  waves  of  moribund  depres- 
sion that  seemed  to  come  sweeping  through  the  wretched 
lives  of  sorrow,  threatening  to  destroy  the  reality  of  her 
vision.  There  were  the  same  swarms  of  dirty  children 
gathered  on  the  roadways  and  playing  on  the  pavements. 
As  the  cab  drew  up  she  noticed  that  there  was  a  large 
crowd  outside  her  own  house  and  strange  things  were 
being  shouted  and  said. 

These  children  too  had  had  their  excitement  on  this 
mad  day,  though  it  was  perhaps  of  a  dififerent  nature. 
While  Olga  had  been  away  Karl  had  been  arrested  for 
stealing  money  from  a  till. 

As  she  went  through  the  front  door  she  saw  the  girl 
with  the  mouth  organ  grinning  at  her. 


CHAPTER  III 

A   FESTIVAL   OP   DEPRAVITY 

THE  immediate  purport  of  this  tragic  denoue- 
ment in  the  Bardel  family  was  somewhat  ob- 
scure to  Olga.  But  that  it  was  au  affair  of 
great  momeut  was  apparent  directly  she  burst  into  the 
room  in  her  new  cotton  frock.  Uncle  Grubhofer  was 
there  standing  like  some  immobile  destiny  with  his  back 
to  the  fireplace.  Montague  was  seated  in  a  corner  fever- 
ishly biting  his  nails,  while  Irene  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  room  crying  and  mopping  her  eyes  with  a  ball 
of  wet  rag.  Olga  went  to  her  corner  and  sat  on  her 
bed.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  As  she  had  passed 
through  the  front  door  the  girl  with  the  mouth  organ 
had  asked  with  a  jubilant  voice  *'if  she  knew  that  her 
brother  was  a  dirty  thief  and  had  been  locked  up?" 
She  had  but  a  vague  idea  of  what  a  thief  was,  but  she 
had  heard  the  children  talk  in  excited  whispers  about 
prisons.  She  gathered  that  thej'^  were  romantic  editions 
of  Uncle  Grubhofer 's  hell,  places  of  torment  for  the  dan- 
gerous and  vile,  affairs  of  heavy  doors  and  clanking 
chains.  She  was  unstrung  by  the  events  of  the  day,  and 
the  sudden  vision  of  Karl  lying  in  some  dark  cell  without 
food  and  perhaps  being  attacked  by  animals  and  other 
crawling  things,  sent  a  spasm  of  pity  through  her.     She 

had  never  loved  Karl,  but  now  when  she  thought  of  him 

53 


54  OLGA  BARDEL 

she  could  only  think  of  his  wretchedness,  of  the  pathos 
of  his  face  expressing  unspeakable  anguish.  She  looked 
at  the  faces  of  her  three  relations — all  of  whom  had  ig- 
nored her — and  she  suddenly  burst  into  tears.  They  all 
looked  at  her  with  surprise,  and  a  curious  feeling  of  un- 
easiness seemed  to  creep  over  them.  Irene  stopped  her 
crying,  Montague  stood  up  and  looked  self-conscious,  and 
Uncle  Grubhofer  lighted  a  cigar.  Irene  had  up  to  that 
point  felt  important  in  her  grief ;  in  addition  she  was  tre- 
mendously moved  by  the  whole  dramatic  situation,  and 
excited  by  the  publicity  which  the  affair  caused,  and 
would  cause.  But  here  was  a  sob  coming  right  from  the 
bottom  of  a  heart.  She  felt  that  that  wretched  little 
"scrub"  was  being  in  some  way  superior.  And  the  re- 
flection made  Irene  furious.  She  went  up  to  her  younger 
sister  and  struck  her  with  the  back  of  her  hand.  "What 
the  hell  are  you  sniveling  about?  You  take  off  that 
dress  and  go  to  bed,"  she  shrieked. 

The  blow  seemed  to  steady  the  little  girl  and  she  did 
as  she  was  bidden.  But  in  the  night  the  vision  of  her 
new  world  faded,  and  she  thought  only  of  Karl  with 
his  pale  face  pressed  against  the  prison  bars. 

During  the  next  few  days  she  was  left  very  much  alone. 
The  rest  were  away  at  Karl's  trial.  She  soothed  the 
turmoil  of  her  soul  on  ]\Iiss  Merson's  piano,  but  she  did 
not  hear  from  any  of  her  friends.  Then  on  one  tragic 
afternoon  Irene  and  Montague  came  in.  They  were  in  a 
great  state  of  perturbation.  It  seemed  that  Karl  was 
to  stop  in  prison  for  three  months;  but  what  seemed  to 
cause  them  the  greatest  disquiet  was  that  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer had  refused  to  give  them  money,  and  now  there 
was  no  money  to  come  from  Karl's  salary  and  they  were 


A  FESTIVAL  OF  DEPRAVITY  55 

debating  where  the  food  was  to  come  from.  While  this 
gloomy  discussion  was  going  on,  there  was  a  knock  at 
the  door  and  she  heard  a  gruff  voice  talking,  and  dis- 
tinctly heard  her  own  name  mentioned.  Waves  of  fear 
passed  over  her.  She  at  once  thought  of  a  policeman  and 
expected  to  see  him  put  his  head  round  the  corner  and 
come  in  and  carry  her  off.  She  tried  to  think  what  she 
had  done.  There  were  many  things.  She  was  very 
wicked,  she  knew.  She  had  played  with  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer's  "property."  She  had  been  for  that  wonderful 
ride  in  the  hansom-cab.  She  had  once  stolen  some  food 
out  of  the  cupboard — just  like  Karl !  That  was  evidently 
it.  She  steeled  herself  for  the  coming  blow.  But  at  last 
the  door  was  shut  and  she  heard  the  heavy  footsteps  go- 
ing down-stairs.  Irene  came  in  and  turned  to  her  and 
said,  "You've  got  to  go  to  school,  my  girl,"  and  then  she 
sniffed,  and  turning  to  Montague  continued  her  discus- 
sion of  ways  and  means. 

Olga  turned  this  information  over  in  her  mind  and 
tried  to  think  what  it  meant.  She  knew  that  those  other 
children  went  to  school.  Would  it  be  pleasant  or  un- 
pleasant ?  Would  she  be  taught  to  play  the  piano  ?  would 
Miss  Merson  herself  teach  her  ?  or  IVIiss  Kenway  ?  That 
evening  she  hung  about  very  late  and  managed  to  catch 
Miss  Merson  and  tell  her  her  news. 

"Ah!"  said  her  friend,  "I  was  expecting  that,  my 
dear.  I  expect  they  will  send  you  to  Murford  Street. 
I  teach  at  the  Collingwood  schools.  What  a  pity!  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  had  you.  Now  what  can  we 
do  about  the  music?  Mr.  Casewell  was  quite  willing  to 
give  you  lessons,  but  it  is  so  far.  I  must  talk  to  your 
sister. ' ' 


56  OLGA  BARDEL 

But  the  talk  with  Irene  was  in  every  way  unsatisfac- 
tory. Irene  was  in  no  mood  to  go  out  of  her  way  to 
pander  to  silly  whims  of  that  sort.  Besides,  she  was 
jealous  of  the  interest  these  people  had  taken  in  her 
younger  sister.  She  insisted  on  Olga  attending  the  Mur- 
ford  Street  School,  and  to  every  suggestion  of  Miss  Mer- 
son's  that  might  make  music  lessons  possible  she  brought 
forward  some  objection.  Lliss  Merson  thought  it  ad- 
visable to  bide  her  time. 

So,  on  the  following  Monday,  Olga  was  duly  bundled 
off  to  attend  the  Murford  Street  National  School,  and 
the  experience  was  more  horrible  than  any  she  could 
have  conceived.  In  the  first  place  her  introduction  was 
unfortunate,  for  almost  the  first  girl  she  met  there  was 
the  big  girl  with  the  mouth  organ,  and  her  greeting  was, 
"Hullo!  dirty  thief!"  and  it  is  a  regrettable  comment 
on  the  standard  of  education  instilled  at  our  elementary 
schools  that  as  long  as  she  remained  there  she  was  known 
as  ''dirty  thief,"  except  to  a  few  of  the  more  charitable 
minded  who  called  her  "monkey  face." 

The  horror  of  these  school  days  she  was  never  able  to 
eradicate  entirely  from  her  memory.  She  was  the  sport 
and  plaything  of  all  those  dirty  and  objectionable  chil- 
dren whom  she  had  always  avoided  in  the  streets.  She 
could  not  get  away  from  them  for  a  moment.  They 
teased  her  in  the  playground  and  played  terrifying  tricks 
on  her  in  the  classroom.  Their  greatest  enjoyment 
seemed  to  be  to  try  and  make  her  lose  her  temper  and  cry. 
She  was  packed  into  a  class  of  about  forty  noisy,  quarrel- 
some, embryonic,  female  hooligans.  A  thin  wan  elderly 
woman  made  desperate  attempts  to  impart  unattractive 
knowledge  by  means  of  blackboards  and  slates,  and  by  a 


A  FESTIVAL  OF  DEPRAVITY  57 

system  of  chantiug  in  unison.  They  would  all  stand  up 
and  drone  together,  "Yorkshire — York — Leeds — Halifax 
— Sheffield — Iluddersfield, "  or,  "  Seven — eights — are — 
fifty-six,"  and  one  statement  seemed  as  unconvincing 
and  incomprehensible  as  the  other. 

Perhaps  this  thin  wan  woman — whose  name  was  Miss 
McQuire — was  not  sure  of  herself  on  her  knowledge. 
She  sometimes  spoke  in  a  tired  voice  as  though  she  were 
not  really  sure  that  seven  eights  were  fifty -six,  but  the 
redundant  repetition  of  the  statement  by  forty  young 
voices  gave  her  a  comforting  assurance.  Perhaps  she 
only  arranged  this  chanting  as  a  means  of  defense,  a 
method  of  drowning  the  restless  din  with  which  she  was 
otherwise  incapable  of  coping.  Olga  could  not  under- 
stand why  the  same  toneless  sounds  should  apply  to 
everything.  Why  not  have  different  tones  and  different 
notes  for  different  knowledge?  "Things  keep  running 
through  one's  head,"  she  thought,  "but  they've  all  the 
same  things."  Then  the  children  would  be  asked  ques- 
tions in  rotation,  and  upon  their  ability  to  give  the  cor- 
rect answer,  their  intelligence,  character,  and  general 
proficiency  was  measured. 

When  she  returned  home  in  the  afternoon  she  felt  com- 
pletely overwrought  and  wretched.  A  listless  apathy 
seized  her  and  she  felt  no  desire  to  work  or  play.  She 
would  go  up  to  ]\[iss  I\Ierson's  room  and  open  the  piano, 
but  after  playing  a  few  scales  she  would  burst  into  tears. 
Then  she  would  sit  in  the  dark  and  wait  for  Miss  JVIer- 
son  to  come  home.  That  good  lady  was  in  every  way 
sympathetic,  but  she  realized  that  she  was  in  a  very  diffi- 
cult position.  She  discussed  the  matter  with  I\Iiss  Ken- 
way,  who  discussed  it  with  Mr.  Casewell.     Olga  was  now 


58  OLGA  BARDEL 

eight  years  old  and  of  course  they  could  not  take  her 
away  from  school.  The  question  was — how  to  help  her, 
and  keep  up  her  interest  in  music,  for  they  were  all 
agreed  that  the  child  showed  promise.  At  length  an 
arrangement  was  made.  There  was  a  poor  but  talented 
pupil  of  Mr.  Casewell's  who  lived  only  a  penny  tram 
ride  journey  from  the  Bardels.  It  was  arranged  that 
she  should  go  to  ]\Iiss  Merson's  on  Saturday  afternoons 
and  give  Olga  a  lesson  for  a  small  fee  which  would  be 
paid  for  by  Miss  Kenway,  or  rather  by  Miss  Kenway's 
mother,  who  said  ''My  goodness  gracious!" 

Miss  ]\Ierson  broke  the  news  to  Olga  at  the  end  of  her 
first  trying  week,  and  her  eyes  glowed  with  the  anticipa- 
tion of  new  joy.  This  pupil  turned  up  as  agreed.  Her 
name  was  Rebecca  Cohen.  She  was  a  nice  girl,  very 
dark,  with  a  pale  fat  face.  She  was  not  a  good  teacher, 
not  having  the  faculty  of  lucid  explanation,  but  she  was 
patient  and  very  encouraging.  This  new  force  in  any 
ease  tended  to  give  Olga  a  renewed  interest  in  existence. 
She  felt  that  Rebecca  Cohen  was  a  link  to  that  splendid 
world  to  which  she  had  paid  so  brief  a  visit. 

Since  the  departure  of  Karl  it  was  true  that  the  home 
seemed  quieter,  but  the  food  was  even  worse  and  scarcer. 
Had  it  not  been  for  Miss  Merson  she  would  not  have  had 
the  strength  to  get  through  the  day.  And  when  she 
went  up  to  her  room  to  practise  in  the  afternoon  she 
always  found  a  slice  of  cake  on  a  plate  on  the  piano 
keys.  Poor  ]\Iiss  Merson!  she  earned  the  sum  of  eighty 
pounds  a  year  out  of  which  she  contributed  forty  pounds 
towards  the  keep  of  a  paralytic  brother  in  Sheffield,  and 
yet  she  always  managed  to  give  Olga  the  impression  of 
being  a  lady  of  unlimited  means. 


A  FESTIVAL  OF  DEPRAVITY  59 

At  this  time  another  character  appeared  on  the  scene 
in  the  person  of  Alfred  Weekes,  who  apparently  came 
courting  Irene.  Sometimes  he  came  and  spent  the  eve- 
ning in  their  room,  in  which  case  Olga  was  sent  up  to 
Miss  Merson's,  or  out  on  to  the  staircase,  or  else  he  and 
Irene  went  out  together.  He  was  a  reedy  youth,  an 
assistant  in  a  tobacconist  shop  near  by. 

Olga  did  not  understand  the  idea  of  courtship,  and 
she  used  to  wonder  why  this  strange  young  man  was 
invited  in  and  given  food,  when  there  was  already  not 
enough  for  the  others.  He  would  stay  unconscionably 
late,  and  she  would  go  to  sleep  in  the  corner  to  the 
sound  of  Irene 's  special  giggle  that  she  reserved  for  these 
occasions  and  to  an  irritating  "pat-pat-pat !"  She  could 
not  understand  this  noise  at  first,  but  she  found  it  was 
the  result  of  a  curious  action  on  the  part  of  both  of 
them.  They  would  stand  facing  each  other  and  then 
Irene  would  give  the  young  man  three  rapid  pats  on  his 
back,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  he  would  say  something 
and  then  return  them.  They  would  keep  up  this  recip- 
rocal patting  arrangement  all  the  evening,  and  when  it 
became  time  for  him  to  go  the  patting  would  become 
more  frequent  and  more  violent,  ending  in  other  sounds 
by  the  door  and  on  the  staircase.  It  seemed  surprising 
that  Irene  should  derive  pleasure  from  kissing  this  un- 
attractive young  tobacconist,  but  such  seemed  to  be  the 
case,  for  when  she  returned  to  the  room  Olga  through 
her  half  closed  eyes  noticed  the  face  of  her  elder  sister 
looking  flushed  and  happy,  and  she  would  stretch  herself 
and  look  at  herself  in  the  broken  mirror  in  a  manner 
that  Olga  had  never  seen  before. 

It  cannot  be  said,  however,  that  Irene  seemed  in  any 


60  OLGA  BARDEL 

way  better  disposed  towards  her.  She  seemed  more  ir- 
ritable and  unreasonable  than  ever.  In  spite  of  the 
penury  of  the  family  she  appeared  in  new  gay  blouses 
and  hair  combs,  and  added  to  the  general  melange  of 
odors  that  characterized  the  room  by  introducing  a  sweet 
and  penetrating  scent  with  which  she  saturated  her 
clothes.  Olga  saw  very  little  of  Miss  IMerson  during 
the  week — she  had  secured  some  evening  work  that  kept 
her  out  till  late  at  night. 

She  lived  through  the  agony  of  the  week,  buoyed  up  by 
the  knowledge  that  Saturday  and  Sunday  would  come. 
But  the  days  seemed  interminable  and  exhausting.  She 
began  to  see  life  as  a  cruel  and  terrible  business.  Her 
visit  to  Miss  Kenway  and  Mr,  Casewell  had  given  her 
some  sense  of  proportion.  She  vainly  yearned  for  them 
to  come  again  and  take  her  away  among  people  who 
moved  softly  and  spoke  kindly,  and  she  could  not  under- 
stand why  they  did  not. 

The  three  months  of  that  first  term  were  the  longest 
and  most  trying  months  she  ever  passed  through.  At  the 
end  of  that  time,  the  Murford  Street  National  School 
teachers  appraised  her  the  fifth  dullest  pupil  in  a  class 
of  forty  dull  children.  And  then  to  her  joy  she  was 
informed  that  there  was  to  be  a  holiday  for  two  weeks. 
The  respite  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  and  she  lay  awake 
at  night  dreaming  of  the  splendid  hours  she  would  spend 
with  Miss  Merson's  piano. 

The  next  morning  before  she  was  up  Karl  returned 
home  from  prison. 

If  the  idea  of  the  prison  system  be  to  act  as  a  cor- 
rective in  any  way,  it  certainly  did  not  succeed  in  the 
case  of  Karl.     Olga  did  not  recognize  him  for  some  min- 


A  FESTIVAL  OF  DEPRAVITY  61 

utes.  His  face  seemed  to  have  shrunk  and  to  look 
pinched  and  quite  yellow,  and  his  eyes  looked  more  shifty 
than  ever.  His  hair  was  quite  cropped  and  he  looked 
ten  years  older.  Irene  shrieked  and  kissed  him,  but  he 
hardly  acknowledged  her,  and  he  looked  wildly  round  the 
room.  "He  is  hungry,"  thought  Olga.  Such  seemed 
to  be  the  case.  He  ate  some  bread  and  dripping  greedily 
and  Irene  made  him  some  tea.  Montague  came  up- 
stairs a  few  moments  later  and  a  curiously  self-conscious 
greeting  took  place  between  the  brothers.  Karl  ignored 
Olga.  He  seemed  tremendously  anxious  to  get  hold  of 
some  money.  He  said  Irene  had  six  shillings  of  his. 
This  she  denied,  and  a  very  unpleasant  scene  followed. 
Eventually  he  borrowed  a  shilling  from  INIontague  and 
three  pence  from  Irene,  and  pulling  his  cloth  cap  right 
down  round  his  ears  he  went  out. 

This  sudden  arrival  upset  Olga.  She  felt  no  desire  to 
work,  and  that  all  her  vague  plans  were  in  jeopardy, 
and  so  indeed  they  were.  Karl  did  not  come  back  till 
very  late  that  night,  and  then  he  was  very  drunk.  He 
behaved  like  a  madman.  Mr,  Alfred  Weekes  was  there 
looking  very  scared,  and  also  Montague.  Karl  said 
that  everybody  was  conspiring  to  do  him  down.  He  ac- 
cused Irene  of  stealing  his  money  while  he  was  away, 
and  on  Weekes  mildly  seconding  Irene's  denial,  Karl 
struck  him  on  the  mouth  and  made  his  lip  bleed.  He 
said  his  whole  family  could  go  to  the  devil.  Even  if  he 
had  taken  a  few  shillings  from  the  till,  why  had  he  done 
it?  Simply  to  keep  them.  They  ate  up  his  salary  and 
rounded  on  him  when  his  back  was  turned.  Pie  called 
Irene  names,  and  at  one  moment  turned  to  Olga  and 
said  "he  wasn't  going  to  keep  that  greedy  little  


62  OLGA  BARDEL 

either."  Olga  cried  and  he  pushed  her  violently  across 
the  bed.  Montague  said  "Steady!  Steady!  don't  be  a 
sanguinary  fool ! ' '  And  then  Karl  flew  at  Montague  and 
the  brothers  fought  all  over  the  room,  with  Irene  and 
Olga  shrieking  in  the  background,  and  the  young  man 
Weekes  trying  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  blows. 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  this  turmoil,  the  door  opened 
and  there  stood  Uncle  Grubhofer.  The  effect  of  the 
presence  of  this  ponderous  relation  was  electrical.  The 
brothers  fell  panting  apart,  while  the  screams  of  Irene 
and  Olga  subsided  into  stifled  sobs.  Uncle  Grubhofer 
never  seemed  so  enormous  as  he  did  at  that  moment.  He 
stood  there,  looking  round  without  speaking.  Curiously 
enough  the  person  who  seemed  to  attract  Ms  eye  more 
than  any  other  was  the  unfortunate  Weekes.  Uncle 
Grubhofer  looked  at  him  with  a  melancholy  amazement, 
and  suddenly  said,  "What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here?" 

His  voice  boomed  with  a  kind  of  sepulchral  timbre. 
It  seemed  to  convey  the  idea  to  the  wretched  Weekes  that 
the  Bardel  family  was  quite  capable  of  conducting  its 
own  festival  of  depravity  without  his  assistance.  He 
fumbled  for  his  hat,  and  holding  a  handkerchief  to  his 
bleeding  lip  he  slunk  out  of  the  room  without  a  word. 
Uncle  Grubhofer  moved  a  portion  of  his  person  a  foot 
or  two  one  way,  just  to  give  him  room  to  pass,  and  then 
the  space  closed  up  again  like  the  damming  of  a  river. 
In  the  case  of  the  Weekes  it  may  be  said  that  it  closed 
up  again  forever,  for  he  was  never  seen  in  the  Bard  els' 
house  again. 

After  he  had  gone  there  was  a  somber  silence.  Karl, 
looking  sick  and  faint,  huddled  against  the  mantel- 
piece, whilst  the  others  hovered  tremblingly  in  the  dim 


A  FESTIVAL  OF  DEPRAVITY  63 

recesses  of  the  room.  The  whole  thing  seemed  unreal  to 
Olga,  unreal  but  unforgetable.  She  had  dreaded  the  re- 
turn of  Karl,  but  had  the  idea  that  three  months  was  a 
much  longer  period  of  time.  She  had  never  known  affec- 
tion from  her  family,  and  they  had  never  tried  to  show 
her  that  it  had  a  meaning.  They  had  always  seemed 
just  to  happen  together  like  a  lot  of  dogs  eating  out  of  a 
plate.  After  her  glimpse  of  splendid  things  she  had  even 
dreamed  of  escaping  from  them  all.  But  somehow  on 
this  evening  they  seemed  to  hem  her  in.  They  were 
all  round  her,  with  the  immobile  mass  of  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer  blocking  the  door.  In  after  years  she  vividly  re- 
called that  moment,  for  in  her  immature  mind  there 
suddenly  flashed  some  premonition  that  it  would  always 
be  thus.  Wherever  she  went  there  would  always  be  Karl 
and  Montague,  and  Irene  hovering  in  the  other  dark 
corners,  and  Uncle  Grubhofer,  sphinx-like  and  terrible, 
controlling  their  movements.  But  what  impressed  her 
in  after  years  was  the  consciousness  that  at  that  mo- 
ment the  child  knew  that  in  her  inmost  heart  there 
was  a  force  more  compelling  even  than  the  power  this 
old  man  exerted.  It  was  a  certain  call  of  the  blood, 
a  sort  of  ingrained  sj^mpathy  with  the  abject  figures  of 
her  relations.  She  knew  that  she  could  never  eradicate 
this,  try  as  she  might.  Uncle  Grubhofer  was  speak- 
ing. His  voice  boomed  round  the  room,  and  his  small 
eyes  glittered  at  them  each  in  turn.  He  talked  of  their 
vices  with  a  lingering  satisfaction,  as  though  the  con- 
sideration of  them  gratified  some  inner  lust.  He  might 
have  been  the  arch-priest  of  some  gray  underworld  re- 
viewing an  army  of  pallid  sins.  He  mentioned  names 
that  Olga  had  not  heard  before,  Oscar,  Jacob,  Ferdinand, 


64  OLGA  BARDEL 

Walter,  Emmeliue,  and  Wanda.  With  a  sudden  shock 
it  came  home  to  her  that  these  names  were  the  names  of 
brothers  and  sisters  of  hers  who  had  died !  They  too,  it 
seemed,  were  the  victims  of  evil  vices.  They  were  born 
in  sin,  lived  in  sin,  and  died  in  sin.  The  devil's  hoofs 
trod  them  under,  as  he  would  tread  under  and  crush 
these  four  unfortunate  remnants.  They  could  never 
escape  it. 

A  shriek  interrupted  this  peroration  and  it  came  from 
Olga.  She  had  suddenly  noticed  Montague  turn  very 
white  and  slip  on  to  the  floor.  She  thought  he  was  dead. 
She  imagined  that  Uncle  Grubhofer  had  cast  a  spell  on 
him,  as  he  would  on  all  the  others  and  destroy  them  in 
turn. 

''Don't!"  she  shrieked.  "Don't!  Don't!" 
Montague  had  fainted,  and  it  was  an  action  that  came 
as  a  pleasant  relief.  Uncle  Grubhofer  disappeared  and 
left  Irene  to  bring  her  brother  to.  This  she  did  by 
sprinkling  him  with  some  of  her  cheap  scent,  and  then 
Karl  had  to  be  got  to  bed.  It  was  a  night  in  which  every 
member  of  that  family  suffered  an  individual  night  of 
anguish,  rocking  with  their  own  terrors.  Olga  was  very 
silent  and  she  tried  to  help  Irene  get  the  brothers  to  bed. 
When  she  retired  herself  she  lay  there  wide-eyed  all 
night  going  over  again  and  again  all  that  Jiad  taken 
place,  and  had  been  said.  Then  she  thought  of  those 
other  brothers  and  sisters  and  wondered  what  they  were 
like.  She  sobbed  pitifully  and  silently.  She  recalled 
each  of  the  names.  Were  the  boys  like  Karl  and  Mon- 
tague ?  And  Emmeline  and  Wanda,  were  they  like  Irene 
or  like  her?  She  thought  Wanda  was  a  pretty  name. 
She  wondered  whether  she  would  have  liked  Wanda. 


A  FESTIVAL  OF  DEPRAVITY  65 

But  she  was  dead;  she  died  in  sin,  and  perhaps  even 
now  she  was  in  that  awful  place  that  Uncle  Grubhofer 
had  so  vividly  described  to  her. 

She  thought  of  ]Miss  ^lerson,  and  almost  decided  to 
creep  out  of  bed  and  go  up-stairs  and  find  comfort  in 
her  arms.  But  the  knowledge  that  she  would  have  to 
pass  Uncle  Grubhofer 's  door  lay  like  a  leaden  weight 
upon  her  chest  and  kept  her  inert.  At  last  the  inter- 
minable night  was  broken  by  pale  gleams  of  light  through 
the  tattered  blind.  Soon  after  came  the  rattle  of  milk 
carts  and  all  the  other  inevitable  sounds  heralding  the 
dubious  industries  of  the  day. 

She  remembered  that  she  was  not  to  go  to  school,  and 
the  satisfaction  of  this  knowledge  was  somewhat  marred 
by  the  fact  of  Karl's  return  and  the  nerve-racking  effect 
of  the  previous  night's  events.  Everything  seemed  late 
that  morning  and  it  must  have  been  ten  o'clock  before 
she  escaped  to  IMiss  IMerson's  room.  The  soiuids  of  the 
familiar  runs  and  chords  seemed  soothing  to  her  tired 
frame.  She  ran  her  fingers  up  and  down  the  piano  with 
a  sensuous  thoughtlessness.  She  was  just  beginning  to 
consider  what  it  was  that  Rebecca  Cohen  had  told  her  to 
practise,  when  the  door  burst  open  and  Irene's  head  ap- 
peared, and  her  strident  voice  called  out : 

"You  've  got  to  stop  that  row.  Karl  's  got  a  bad  'ead. 
You  can  come  down  and  'clp  me  wash  up." 

The  door  slammed  to,  and  Olga  rose  and  shut  the 
piano  quietly.  Some  fatalistic  sense  had  prepared  her 
for  this  and  she  went  through  the  day's  drudgery  re- 
signedly. For  she  was  now  reaching  an  age  when  Irene 
began  to  find  her  useful  about  the  house,  and  all  the  most 
uncongenial  tasks  were  allotted  to  her.     It  is  true  that 


66  OLGA  BARDEL 

great  cleanliness  was  not  insisted  upon,  but  it  was  part 
of  the  contract  that  they  had  to  keep  two  of  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer's  rooms  in  order  and  to  make  up  his  bed  and  to 
collect  the  cigar  ends  and  in  other  ways  rectify  the  ir- 
ruptions of  his  domestic  life.  They  also  had  to  sweep 
down  the  stairs,  and  make  some  sort  of  order  out  of  the 
chaos  in  the  basement  where  Karl  and  Montague  slept. 
And  then  the  front  door  step  was  occasionally  cleaned, 
and  perhaps  the  most  essential  work  of  the  day  was  to 
see  that  Uncle  Grubhofer's  brass  plate  reflected  its  eter- 
nal splendors  to  the  admiring  gaze  of  the  local  children. 

All  these  duties  devolved  more  and  more  on  Olga  as 
she  became  older  and  stronger.  Nor  indeed  did  she  re- 
sent them.  She  derived  satisfaction  out  of  the  physi- 
cal sense  of  doing  things  that  were  wanted.  Her  only 
objection  was  that  they  came  violently  and  at  unreason- 
able moments.  Her  practising  would  be  interrupted  at 
any  moment  at  the  urgent  command  to  perform  some 
menial  task. 

Nevertheless  she  persevered  and  that  innate  sense  of 
cunning  in  this  matter  did  not  desert  her.  For  three 
days  after  Karl's  return  she  was  not  allowed  to  go  near 
the  piano.  For  Karl  stopped  indoors  and  was  very 
unwell  and  truculent.  And  then  he  started  going  out  a 
little  while  at  a  time.  Olga  had  to  dovetail  her  practis- 
ing into  the  moments  when  Karl  was  out  and  Uncle 
Grubhofer  was  out  and  when  she  was  not  required  for 
housework.  Sometimes  this  desirable  combination  of 
circumstances  happened,  but  during  the  two  weeks' 
respite  from  the  agonies  of  school,  it  is  doubtful  if  she 
put  in  eight  hours'  complete  practice.  And  yet  Miss 
Rebecca  Cohen  was  able  to  report  that  the  little  girl, 


A  FESTIVAL  OF  DEPKAVITY  67 

Olga  Bard  el,  was  getting  on  "very  well  indeed."  And 
then  the  dreaded  day  arrived  when  she  had  to  return  to 
school,  and  all  its  monotonous  horrors  were  repeated. 

In  the  meantime  Karl  got  another  job  through  the 
influence  of  Uncle  Grubhofer.  It  was  to  travel  in  trin- 
kets and  cheap  jewelry.  He  carried  a  small  black  case 
and  called  in  at  shops,  and  private  houses,  and  eating 
houses  and  saloons,  and  flashed  his  seductive  wares  in  the 
eyes  of  all-too-human  mortals.  It  seemed  quite  surpris- 
ing that  a  man  who  had  just  come  out  of  prison  for 
stealing  should  be  entrusted  with  a  case  of  jewelry,  but 
perhaps  it  only  emphasized  the  amazing  power  of  Uncle 
Grubhofer,  flavored  with  a  certain  cynical  enjoyment  of 
the  sense  of  the  constant  jars  of  temptation  that  this 
profession  must  entail. 

Then  followed  a  period  of  dismal  monotony  for  Olga, 
broken  by  a  few  pale  gleams  of  relief.  The  din  and 
clatter  of  the  school  was  always  in  her  ears  even  in  bed. 
She  found  one  or  two  of  the  girls  rather  nicer  and  more 
friendly  than  the  others,  but  they  never  became  intimate. 
She  was  always  terrified  by  the  tricks  they  played  on 
her,  and  amazed  by  their  cruelty  and  roughness.  She 
learnt  a  few  facts  mechanically  like  mnemonic  tricks,  but 
they  bore  no  relation  to  other  facts  and  did  not  help  her 
to  cope  with  the  tribulations  of  her  life.  After  school 
the  home,  housework,  and  the  eternal  struggle  for  food 
and  petty  comforts.  She  practised  in  spasmodic  inter- 
vals, and  IMiss  Cohen  still  continued  to  come  on  Sat- 
urdays. Even  her  lessons  were  interrupted  and  inter- 
fered with  by  household  demands. 

Irene  had  a  period  of  hysterical  depression  follow- 
ing on  the  tragic  evening  when  Mr.  Alfred  Weekes  broke 


68  OLGA  BARDEL 

off  his  engagement  and  "patted"  no  more.  And  then 
Montague  became  very  ill  and  was  taken  away  to  a  hos- 
pital. He  was  not  expected  to  recover,  but  he  eventually 
did  and  returned  after  many  months,  looking  paler  and 
more  phlegmatic  than  ever.  Karl  prospered  in  his  trin- 
ket profession  and  became  more  noisy  and  domineering, 
and  alas !  indulged  in  more  orgies  of  drink.  There  were 
nights  when  she  would  lie  awake  and  the  room  seemed 
to  become  the  playground  of  evil  spirits.  In  the  shal- 
low shafts  of  light  she  could  not  disengage  realities  from 
hallucinations.  There  seemed  to  be  a  wild  dance  of 
frenzied  passions,  and  at  the  door  the  impenetrable  mask 
of  Uncle  Grubhofer  with  his  lips  upon  a  reed. 


CHAPTER  IV 
holly's  aquarium 

THERE  came  a  great  day  in  her  life  when  she 
was  taken  by  Mr.  Casewell  to  play  to  "Levitch 
himself." 

She  could  tell  by  the  way  her  friends  spoke  of  this 
visit  that  it  signified  an  event  of  tremendous  impor- 
tance. Perhaps  she  was  a  little  disappointed  by  her  first 
impression  of  "Levitch  himself";  she  certainly  did  not 
imagine  that  the  little  bald-headed  man  with  the  short 
neck  and  the  dark  eyes,  who  bustled  forward  and  took 
both  her  hands  in  his,  was  going  to  have  the  influence 
on  her  life  that  he  did. 

She  noticed,  indeed,  that  his  eyes  were  very  keen  and 
kind,  and  that  they  twinkled  with  a  certain  humorous 
warmth,  and  that  he  moved  with  little  jerky  actions,  but 
there  was  something  too  unusual  and  foreign  about  him 
to  make  an  instant  appeal. 

"He  's  like  a  bird,"  she  thought. 

He  led  her  to  the  piano  with  a  queer  display  of  cour- 
tesy that  she  had  not  observed  in  any  one  before,  and 
made  her  comfortable. 

When  she  had  played  the  piece  that  Mr.  Casewell  had 
instiiicted  her  to,  "Levitch  himself"  threw  his  small 
head  right  back  and  laughed  uproariously.  She  had 
never  heard  any  one  laugh  quite  so  loudly  or  so  freely. 

69 


70  OLGA  BARDEL 

It  was  a  splendid  laugh.  It  did  not  surprise  her,  be- 
cause she  knew  that  Mr.  Casewell  and  all  these  nice 
people  always  laughed  when  they  first  heard  her.  It 
meant  that  they  were  pleased.  She  grinned  herself 
with  satisfaction  to  think  that  Levitch  laughed.  And 
then  he  came  and  stroked  her  hair  and  cried  out : 

' '  Brava !     Brava !     Very  nice !    Play  me  again. ' ' 

And  so  she  played  again.  She  played  everything  she 
knew,  and  ' '  Levitch  himself ' '  kept  on  calling  out  * '  Brava ! 
Brava ! ' '  and  laughing. 

When  she  had  finished  he  spoke  to  Mr.  Casewell  in  a 
foreign  language  and  seemed  very  excited. 

As  they  were  going  he  said: 

"Olga,  you  shall  be  a  gr-r-eat  pee-an-eeste,  isn't  it? 
Now  tell  me,  do  you  like  apples?" 

She  smiled  and  said,  "Yes." 

He  took  one  out  of  a  bag  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"Apples,"  he  said,  "are  goot,  very  goot  indeed.  You 
must  always  eat  apples,  and  then  you  vill  one  day  be  a 
gr-r-eat  arteeste!" 

He  took  a  bite  out  of  one  himself,  and  continued : 

"Ven  you  are  nairvous  or  troubled  you  shall  eat  an 
apple.  You  shall  eat  the  skin  too,  for  that  is  goot.  But 
you  must  not  eat  the  core,  for  the  core  will  steek  in  your 
t'roat,  and  then  there  will  be  no  more  little  pee-an-eeste." 
He  spoke  again  to  Mr.  Casewell  in  the  foreign  tongue, 
and  then  he  turned  and  patted  her  hands  and  said : 

"  So !  you  shall  vork  hart,  and  come  and  see  me  again 
already ! ' ' 

It  was  so  kind  the  way  he  did  this,  that  Olga  could  find 
nothing  to  say.  She  was  conscious  of  smiling  through 
her  tears. 


ROLLY'S  AQUARIUM  71 

lu  after-life  she  often  recalled  that  first  advice  that 
"Levitch  himself"  gave  her  about  the  apples,  and  when 
she  remembered  to  follow  it,  she  found  it  in  every  way 
beneficial. 

She  returned  to  Canning  Town  in  a  very  elated  state. 
She  felt  that  she  was  on  the  eve  of  some  great  and  for- 
tunate change  in  her  affairs.  She  could  not  restrain 
her  desire  to  talk,  and  she  told  Irene  about  the  kindness 
of  the  great  professor  who  had  said  "Brava!  brava!" 
and  given  her  an  apple. 

She  was  conscious  after  that  that  conflicting  forces 
were  at  work  behind  her  back :  letters  passed,  and  people 
called  and  talked  in  the  passage  outside,  and  one  day,  in 
Miss  IMerson's  room,  she  was  aware  of  Uncle  Grubhofer 
listening  furtively  outside  the  door  when  she  was  prac- 
tising. 

A  week  passed,  and  then  one  day  he  suddenly  sum- 
moned her  to  the  awful  room.  He  was  cleaning  his  nails 
with  a  piece  of  wire  filing.     He  glanced  at  her  and  said : 

*'I  shall  want  you  to  go  out  with  me  this  afternoon  to 
see  a  gentleman;  so  get  yourself  ready  by  three  o'clock, 
and  you  may  have  to  play  the  piano,  so  take  your  pieces 
with  you." 

She  protested  mildly  that  she  had  her  appointment  for 
a  lesson  with  Casewell  that  afternoon,  but  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer repeated  very  distinctly: 

"Irene  will  get  you  ready.  Be  here  at  a  quarter  to 
three." 

At  a  quarter  to  three,  therefore,  she  reappeared  in 
Uncle  Grubhofer's  room,  having  undergone  a  tentative 
operation  of  cleaning  up  at  the  hands  of  Irene.  Uncle 
Grubhofer  donned  a  square  bowler  hat  with  his  long-tail 


72  OLGA  BARDEL 

coat,  and  a  muffler,  and  lighting  a  cigar  he  led  the  way 
into  the  street.  They  walked  a  considerable  distance, 
and  then  took  a  tram.  The  tram  put  them  down  at  a 
bright  corner,  which  seemed  a  junction  for  other  trams. 
It  was  very  noisy  and  gay.  There  were  brilliant  public- 
houses  and  shops  and  a  fried-fish  shop,  built  apparently 
in  blue  tiles,  which  announced  "SMITH'S  FISH 
SNACKS,"  and  then  in  smaller  letters,  "Say  this 
quickly,  and  then  come  inside  and  order  some."  Next 
to  this  was  a  large  red-brick  building  with  columns  and 
rounded  arches,  and  in  black  letters  on  a  mosaic  ground 
was  the  inscription,  ROLLY'S  AQUARIUM.  Outside 
which  a  very  tall,  military-looking  gentleman  in  gold  and 
blue  was  bawling,  ' '  Now  showing !  The  Murder  of  Mrs. 
Quilles!     Step  inside!" 

They  went  past  this  aristocratic  person,  and  down  a 
dark  passage,  and  then  knocked  at  a  door.  Some  one 
said,  "Come  in!"  and  Olga  found  herself  in  a  long,  low 
stuffy  room  full  of  cases  and  canvas  stacks  of  printed 
advertisements.  At  one  end  was  a  large  roll-top  desk 
next  to  a  fire,  where  a  fat  man  with  oily  fair  hair  sat 
smoking  a  cigar.  He  looked  up  and  said,  "Oh,  is  that 
you,  Grubhof er  ?  Just  a  minute ! "  He  took  up  a  pen 
and  wrote  something  down  in  a  small  note-book,  and 
then,  turning  towards  them,  he  said,  "Oh,  is  this  the 
little  girl  ?     How  old  is  she  ? ' ' 

"Fourteen,"  said  Uncle  Grubhof  er,  much  to  Olga's 
surprise.  She  was  about  to  protest  that  she  was  not  yet 
twelve,  but  Uncle  Grubhof  er  put  his  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der, and  continued : 

"She  's  very  strong,  though — strong  as  a  girl  of  six- 
teen.   You  must  hear  her  play." 


ROLLY'S  AQUARIU:\I  73 

The  fat  gentleman  grunted  as  though  somewhat  skep- 
tical of  these  pronouncements,  and  then  said  suddenly 
to  her: 

"Can  she  play  coon  music?" 

She  had  not  the  faintest  idea  what  coon  music  was,  but 
before  she  had  had  time  to  answer  Uncle  Grubhofer  in- 
terpolated : 

"My  dear  sir,  she  can  play  anything.  She  can  play 
anything." 

The  fat  man  got  up  and,  removing  some  boxes  from 
another  corner,  revealed  an  old  upright  piano. 

"Let  's  hear  what  she  can  do,"  he  said. 

The  business  now  began  to  assume  some  meaning  in  the 
eyes  of  the  little  girl.  There  was  a  piano,  and  she  was 
asked  to  play.  She  did  not  know  what  the  significance 
of  the  demand  implied,  but  she  could  play,  and  she 
would.  She  sat  down  and  played  a  prelude  by  Chopin, 
putting  all  she  knew  into  it.  It  was  the  same  prelude 
that  she  had  first  plaj^ed  to  "Levitch  himself,"  the  per- 
formance of  which  had  made  him  throw  back  his  head 
and  laugh.  As  she  lifted  her  fingers  from  the  piano  after 
the  last  chord,  she  instinctively  turned  to  see  what  effect 
it  had  had  on  the  fat  man.  Apparently  he  had  not 
been  listening.  His  shiny  red  face,  with  the  cigar  stuck 
in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  was  gazing  blankly  at  a  book 
in  which  he  was  busily  writing.  After  a  few  seconds 
he  glanced  up,  implying  that  he  knew  she  had  finished 
because  she  had  left  off,  and  then  he  rummaged  in  a 
waste-paper  basket,  at  the  same  time  saj'-ing : 

"Yes.     Can  she  plaj^  anything  a  bit  brighter?" 

She  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  started  playing 
a  Chopin  waltz.     She  had  only  played  a  few  passages 


74  OLGA  BARDEL 

before  the  telephone  bell  went.  The  fat  man  took  off 
the  receiver  and  bawled  through  in  a  loud  voice,  '  *  'Ullo ! 
'Ullo !  is  that  you,  Carter  ?  Oh,  well,  now  look  'ere,  I 
want  you  to  find  out  what  date  Humphries  and  Plumb- 
well  sent  off  that  cast  of  the  Duchess  of  Pleads,  eh?" 
There  was  a  pause,  during  which  the  fat  man  was  ap- 
parently waiting  information ;  his  small  eyes  wandered 
round  the  room  and  suddenly  lighted  on  Olga. 

She  had  naturally  left  off  at  the  first  crash  of  the  tele- 
phone-bell. He  looked  at  her  as  though  seeing  her  for 
the  first  time,  and  then  something  seemed  to  jog  his 
memory,  and  he  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  "Er — go 
on,  Miss — er — Grubhof er.  We  won 't  be  long. ' '  She  sat 
there  feeling  furious  and  unhappy.  She  wanted  to  cry, 
but  was  restrained  by  the  presence  of  Uncle  Grubhofer, 
who,  she  knew,  was  hovering  behind  her.  She  stared 
hopelessly  at  the  piano,  wondering  whether  she  had  bet- 
ter make  another  desperate  effort  to  begin  all  over  again. 
She  was  rescued  from  her  indecision  by  the  action  of  the 
fat  man,  who  had  evidently  got  the  information  he 
wanted  and  entered  it  in  a  book.  He  cleared  his  throat 
and  swung  round  on  his  chair  and  addressed  himself  to 
Uncle  Grubhofer. 

"Yes,  well,  you  know,  Grubhofer,"  he  said,  "this  sort 
of  thing  's  all  right,  I  expect,  but  it  won't  do  for  here. 
She  must  work  up  some  coon-music,  and — "  He  paused 
and  then,  turning  suddenly  to  Olga,  he  said,  "Can  she 
play  'As  Once  in  May,'  or,  'Thy  Lily  Lips'?" 

Olga  felt  her  heart  beating  fast  with  outraged  disap- 
pointment, as  though  something  had  gone  entirely  wrong 
with  the  world.     She  said  weakly,  "No." 

' '  Um ! ' '  said  the  fat  man,  and  then  he  ferreted  about 


ROLLY'S  AQUx\RIUM  75 

under  his  desk  and  produced  some  music.  He  rolled  the 
cigar  from  one  side  of  his  mouth  to  another,  and  then 
said,  "Let  her  take  these,  and  work  'em  up.  And  then 
perhaps  we  can  talk  business." 

On  the  way  home,  Uncle  Grubhofer  seemed  meditative, 
and  the  next  morning  he  told  her  she  need  not  go  to 
school ;  she  could  stop  at  home  and  ' '  work  up  the  pieces 
Mr.  Albu  gave  her." 

These  instructions  rather  excited  her.  In  any  ease, 
anything  was  better  than  going  to  school,  and  perhaps 
she  would  like  the  music.  But  what  would  Mr.  Casewell 
think  ?  And  Levitch  himself  ?  She  eagerly  unfolded  the 
printed  matter  and  scampered  through  it.  She  could 
read  very  well,  and  yet  she  could  make  little  of  the 
coon-songs,  though  she  thought  "As  Once  in  May"  was 
rather  pretty,  and  there  were  several  other  simple,  sen- 
timental little  pieces.  She  played  them  through  sev- 
eral times,  and  then  got  tired  of  them  the  same  morn- 
ing. She  sould  not  analyze  her  feelings,  but  she  became 
more  and  more  convinced  that  Mr.  Casewell  would  not 
approve  of  her  playing  these  pieces;  it  was  as  though 
some  inner  finer  feeling  were  being  outraged.  ]\Iore- 
over.  Uncle  Grubhofer  was  hovering  behind  the  door, 
and  once  when  she  threw  the  music  down  in  disgust, 
and  started  practising  her  Chopin,  she  heard  his  heavy 
breathing,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  in  the  room.  She 
was  almost  afraid  to  look  round.  During  the  rest  of  that 
week,  for  the  first  time  of  her  life,  she  almost  wished  she 
were  at  school. 

When  Saturday  came  round  she  was  quite  surprised 
to  find  that  she  was  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  Mr.  Case- 
well's.    Her  surprise  would  perhaps  not  have  been  so 


76  OLGA  BARDEL 

great  had  she  been  allowed  to  read  the  note  that  she  was 
given  and  told  to  present  to  Mr.  Casewell,  together  with 
a  bundle  of  music.     It  ran  as  follows: 

Mr.  Grubhofer  presents  his  compliments  to  Mr.  Casewell  and 
will  be  obliged  if  he  will  give  his  niece,  Miss  Olga  Bardel,  lessons 
on  the  enclosed  pieces,  and  also  if  he  will  kindly  teach  her  how  to 
play  coon  music  without  delay  and  oblige. 

When  Mr.  Casewell  read  this  note  his  nostrils  trem- 
bled with  a  grim  defiance.  He  recognized  it  as  a  chal- 
lenge, though  he  could  not  have  guessed  that  it  was  to  be 
the  prelude  to  a  long  and  bitter  struggle  between  two 
forces  that  were  to  control  ultimately  what  one  must 
call — for  lack  of  a  less  pretentious  term — the  artistic  soul 
of  Olga  Bardel.  He  said  nothing  to  Olga,  but  he  seemed 
abstracted  during  her  lesson,  and  afterwards  he 
prompted  her  to  find  out  what  had  happened.  When  she 
told  him  the  whole  story  of  her  visit  to  Mr.  Albu,  he 
looked  grave.  Then  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a  note,  which 
he  gave  her  to  take  back, 

Mr.  Casewell  regrets  that  he  cannot  accede  to  Mr.  Grubhofer's 
request  His  lessons  to  Miss  Bardel  are,  of  course,  quite 
gratuitous,  the  outcome  of  his  recognition  of  the  very  real  talent 
and  promise  of  this  little  girl.  He  cannot  believe  that  any  useful 
purpose  would  be  achieved  by  teaching  her  the  accompanying 
pieces  or  instructing  her  in  coon  music,  and  in  both  cases  it  would 
be  entirely  contrary  to  his  own  method  of  teaching,  which  he 
must  be  allowed  to  prosecute  in  his  own  way. 

Mr.  Casewell  stopped.  He  was  about  to  sign  it,  but 
a  further  idea  prompted  him  to  add: 

He  fully  recognizes  that  Miss  Bardel's  talents,  as  thoy  are,  may 
be  turned  to  some  small  commercial  advantage,  but  he  strongly 


ROLLY'S  AQUARIUM  77 

urges  that  she  may  be  allowed  to  continue  in  her  present  oourse 
of  study  for  the  present,  in  the  conviction  that  in  a  short  time 
they  will  be  of  a  lucrative  value  out  of  all  proportion  to  any 
temporary  rewards. 

After  the  exchange  of  these  notes  there  was  a  lull  in 
the  proceedings  for  three  days.  And  then  she  was  taken 
by  Uncle  Grubhofer  to  visit  a  young  man  in  the  neigh- 
borliood  whose  name  was  Christopher  Tilley.  He  was  a 
bright  and  gladsome  young  creature,  and  he  called  Olga 
"Kiddy."  It  seemed  that  the  idea  was  that  he  should 
teach  Olga  how  to  play  coon  music. 

This  he  did  with  a  sort  of  joyous  abandon,  singing 
and  laughing  and  talking,  at  the  same  time.  He  was 
very  impressed  with  Olga's  pianistie  abilities,  and  said, 
' '  You  11  soon  fix  it  all  right,  kiddy.  It  's  quite  easy,  you 
know — syncopated  time.  Look  here,  let  's  do  this  'Moon- 
light Darkies.'  Rum-tum-tura-tum,  rum-tum-tum-tura. 
Bang  it  out,  you  know.  This  is  M'here  you  get  the  beat." 
And  then  he  howled  to  his  accompaniment : 

"I  'm  waiting  for  her, 
The  little  Yoonah  gal, 

"Yum-tum-tum-tum — it  's  just  the  rhythm  j-ou  have 
to  remember.  You  know  what  rhythm  is,  of  course. 
Let  it  go,  you  know,  what?" 

She  had  three  lessons  from  IMr.  Christopher  Tilley, 
and  played  coon  music  quite  nicely.  And  then  she  was 
taken  to  Mr.  Albu  again,  to  show  what  progress  she  had 
made.  That  gentleman  was  obviously  satisfied.  He 
even  went  so  far  as  to  leave  off  writing  in  his  book  while 
she  was  playing  "Moonlight  Darkies,"  and  to  beat  an  ac- 
companiment with  his  pencil  on  the  roll-top  desk. 


78  OLGA  BARDEL 

After  that  there  was  a  long  and  keen  discussion  be- 
tween Mr.  Albu  and  Uncle  Grubhofer  with  regard  to 
terms.  It  was  at  length  agreed  that  Olga  was  to  attend 
the  aquarium  for  one  week  on  trial.  After  that  she  was 
to  receive  ten  shillings  a  week — or  rather,  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer was  to  receive  ten  shillings  a  week,  payable  on 
Friday  nights.  Her  hours  were  to  be  from  one  to  six 
one  week,  with  half-an-hour's  interval  for  tea,  and  from 
six  to  ten-thirty,  the  alternate  week. 

When  they  arrived  home,  Uncle  Grubhofer  took  her 
to  his  room  and  gave  her  a  long  dissertation  on  morality 
and  life.  He  drew  a  terrifying  picture  of  the  Bardel 
family,  and  emphasized  all  the  vices  and  disabilities  of 
each  individual  member.  He  spoke  of  their  ingratitude 
to  him,  and  expatiated  on  what  he  had  done  for  all  of 
them.  But  on  none  of  them,  apparently,  had  he  showered 
such  favors  and  tokens  of  affection  as  on  Olga.  He 
lingered  on  the  question  of  the  expense  she  had  always 
been  to  him,  but  now  it  seemed  there  was  just  a  small 
chance  of  her  beginning  to  show  just  ever  so  little  a  re- 
turn for  all  his  kindnesses.  She  must  work  hard  and 
stick  to  it,  and  try  and  demonstrate  that  one  member  of 
the  family  had  a  grain  of  moral  decency. 

All  of  which  impressed  Olga  very  much.  She  had  no 
standard  of  relative  values  to  go  by.  She  believed  that 
what  he  said  must  be  the  truth,  and  she  felt  crushed  and 
unhappy.  And  the  thought  weighed  upon  her  that  she 
had  perhaps  no  right  to  go  to  INIr.  Casewell  and  visit 
these  other  people. 

When  the  news  reached  Miss  Merson,  that  lady  did  a 
thing  she  was  not  in  the  habit  of  doing — she  lost  her 
temper.     She  went  down-stairs  and  bearded  Uncle  Grub- 


ROLLY'S  AQUARIUM  79 

hofer  iu  his  den.  Nothing  is  known  of  what  took  place 
at  that  interview,  but  the  next  morning  she  received  a 
week's  notice  to  quit  the  house,  ''as  her  room  was  re- 
quired for  the  extension  of  the  business  of  Julius  Grub- 
hofer." 

Poor  Miss  Merson !  She  was  very  upset,  and  she  went 
to  see  Miss  Kenway,  but  the  philanthropist  had  no  work- 
able solution  to  suggest.  Mr.  Casewell  and  Rebecca 
Cohen  were  also  consulted,  but  on  the  following  Monday 
Miss  Merson  had  to  pack  her  meager  belongings  into  a 
greengrocer's  cart,  and  move  further  down  the  street; 
and  Olga  commenced  her  engagement  with  Mr.  Albu  at 
the  aquarium. 

Roily 's  Aquarium  was  a  characteristic  landmark  of 
South  London  at  that  time.  Its  principal  attraction 
was  its  wax  works.  It  had  a  large  central  hall  with 
recesses  all  round.  Some  of  these  recesses — those  for 
instance  where  a  lifelike  representation  of  the  very 
latest  and  most  piquant  murder  was  displayed — were 
accessible  only  on  an  extra  payment  of  twopence  or 
threepence.  The  charge  for  admission  varied  according 
to  what  was  considered  the  standard  of  public  interest. 
In  this  connection  it  is  perhaps  to  be  regretted,  that 
members  of  the  Royal  Family  were  free  and  in  prodigal 
numbers.  They  even  stood  in  the  hall  and  on  the  stair- 
case— the  Queen  and  the  Princesses  having  deplorably 
dirty  necks,  and  their  frocks  having  lost  a  good  deal  of 
their  early  splendor.  Famous  generals  and  politicians 
were  also  free  of  access  to  any  one,  whereas  Ben  Leatham, 
whose  claim  to  public  notice  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  had 
strangled  Mrs.  Quilles  in  bed,  had  a  recess  to  himself, 
and  was  visible  only  on  the  payment  of  sixpence.    It 


80  OLGA  BARDEL 

is  true  that  one  saw  not  only  Ben  Leatham  himself,  but 
what  was  claimed  to  be  the  actual  bed  and  the  actual 
rope.  There  was  also  the  terrifying  figure  of  Mrs. 
Quilles  lying  huddled  under  the  sheets.  It  was  in  any 
case  a  popular  recess  and  fully  justified  the  manage- 
ment's business  judgment  in  making  it  the  most  expen- 
sive. There  was  also  a  recess  where  sat  the  figure  of 
the  Countess  of  Fyshe-Slayce  resplendent  in  diamonds 
and  a  faded  maroon  dress.  She  had  been  convicted  ten 
years  previously  of  putting  poison  in  her  husband's 
tea,  but  the  glamour  of  the  romantic  episode  had  some- 
what waned,  and  one  might  gaze  at  her  penciled  eye- 
brows for  a  humble  twopence. 

From  the  body  of  the  hall  two  iron  staircases  led  to 
an  upper  gallery,  where  were  booths  and  stalls  and  a 
place  where  people  shot  at  moving  targets,  rabbits  and 
lions  chasing  each  other  over  hillocks. 

This  combination  of  attractions,  living  and  wax, 
seemed  to  require  the  chastening  influence  of  melody 
to  bind  it  together,  and  Olga  discovered  that  her  duty 
bound  her  to  sit  behind  two  screens  next  to  the  shooting 
gallery  and  play  the  piano  for  five  hours  on  end  with  a 
few  short  intervals.  The  Aquarium  was  open  from  ten 
in  the  morning  till  ten-thirty  at  night,  but  music  was 
not  considered  necessary  till  one  o'clock.  She  started 
on  the  following  Monday  at  one  o'clock  accordingly, 
feeling  rather  important  and  excited.  Very  few  people 
came  in  till  two  or  three,  and  then  it  seemed  to  become 
noisy  and  tiring.  People  would  occasionally  come  up 
and  peer  at  her  through  the  screen  and  say,  "It  's  a 
little  girl!"  and  then  go  away. 

She  soon  discovered  that  her  most  trying  difficulty 


ROLLY'S  AQUARIUM  81 

was  to  be  the  shooting  gallery  next  door,  and  for  the 
life  of  her  she  could  not  think  why  the  piano  had  been 
placed  in  the  noisiest  spot  in  the  whole  building.  She 
would  get  fairly  interested  in  the  slow  melody  of  some 
sentimental  song  when  suddenly  would  come  the  sharp 
"pop  !  pop  !  pop  !" 

She  felt  at  times  that  it  was  a  distraction  she  might 
have  got  accustomed  to  if  it  had  been  regular  and  rhyth- 
mic but  it  was  the  horrible  uncertainty  of  when  the 
sound  was  coming,  that  in  a  few  days  produced  in  her 
the  sensation  of  being  struck  by  a  whip  every  time  she 
heard  that  penetrating  toneless  snap. 

It  was  very  hot  up  in  the  gallery  and  the  time  seemed 
interminable,  nevertheless  she  struggled  through  the 
week  with  credit,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  j\Ir.  Albu 
said  that  he  thought  ''she  would  do  all  right.  She  must 
get  a  bit  more  snap  into  the  bright  things,  and  play 
'Thy  Lily  Hands'  much  slower.'' 

On  the  following  week  she  started  in  earnest,  but  her 
interest  and  enthusiasm  had  somewhat  abated.  She 
would  start  the  day  well,  but  after  an  hour  she  would 
feel  tired  and  irritable.  About  four  o  'clock  an  attendant 
would  bring  her  a  cup  of  tea  with  a  thin  slice  of  bread 
and  butter  poised  on  the  saucer.  This  revived  her  for 
half  an  hour,  and  she  had  to  flog  her  energies  to  get 
through  till  six  o'clock.  When  it  was  over  she  felt 
dazed  and  weak,  and  her  head  throbbed. 

When  she  arrived  home  at  night,  she  noticed  that 
she  was  given  something  definite  to  eat,  some  soup  or 
stewed  potatoes,  with  occasionally  a  small  piece  of  meat. 

She  was  not  allowed  to  visit  Miss  IMerson  on  Sunday, 
and  spent  most  of  the  day  lying  on  the  bed. 


82  OLGA  BARDEL 

On  the  following  Monday  she  had  to  play  in  the  even- 
ing, and  this  she  found  more  exhausting  still,  although 
the  hours  were  a  little  shorter.  She  relieved  an  elderly 
woman  whom  she  found  playing  there  at  six  o'clock  and 
then  she  had  to  keep  going  till  ten.  The  air  seemed  much 
fouler  in  the  evening  and  there  were  many  more  people. 
There  was  quite  a  long  queue  waiting  to  get  in  to  "the 
Murder  of  Mrs.  Quilles."  Once  during  an  interval  an 
attendant  had  allowed  her  to  go  in.  It  had  been  very 
terrible.  She  wanted  to  scream.  She  had  never  seen 
anything  more  awful  than  the  face  of  Ben  Leatham 
stealthily  creeping  away  from  the  bed  with  a  small 
black  bag  in  his  hands,  presumably  containing  Mrs. 
Quilles 's  jewels.  She  did  not  meditate  upon  the  tragic 
co-relation  of  jewels  and  that  meager  room,  she  was 
consumed  with  a  violent  horror,  the  thing  huddled  be- 
neath the  sheets !  and  more  with  a  sort  of  intensive,  pity. 
She  wanted  to  rush  forward  to  help,  to  throw  her  arms 
around  it. 

"The  Murder  of  Mrs.  Quilles"  did  not  amuse  her, 
and  when  she  got  back  to  the  gallery  she  could  not 
play  "Thy  Lily  Hands";  it  seemed  incongruous  and 
profane.  She  felt  very  upset,  and  she  scampered  over 
the  keys  feverishly,  striking  wrong  notes.  In  the  even- 
ing crowds  of  young  men  came,  and  the  "snap,  snap, 
snap"  from  the  shooting  gallery  went  on  all  the  time. 

After  two  hours  of  it  her  temples  would  begin  to  throb 
with  pain. 

On  the  third  evening  Mr.  Albu  came  and  looked  at 
her  meditatively,  and  then  he  touched  her  on  the  shoulder 
and  said : 

"Come  round  and  see  me  at  my  office  at  eight  o'clock." 


ROLLY'S  AQUARIUM  83 

A  wave  of  liope  that  she  was  to  be  dismissed  for  iii- 
conipetence  passed  over  her,  merged  with  the  dread  of  the 
effect  of  such  a  circumstance  upon  Uncle  Grubhofer. 
But  her  fears  were  set  at  rest  on  entering  Mr.  Albu's 
office.     lie  said: 

* '  You  're  looking  peeky.     We  '11  go  and  have  some  fish. ' ' 

He  nodded  to  her  to  follow  him,  and  they  went  out 
through  the  corridor  and  entered  the  resplendent  edifice 
consecrated  to  ''Smith's  Fish  Snacks." 

This  was  the  first  intimation  that  she  had  that  ^Ir. 
Albu  was  a  person  not  altogether  without  a  heart.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  just  a  type  of  whom  she  was 
to  meet  hundreds  in  after  life;  that  is  to  say,  he  was 
just  purely  and  exclusively  commercial,  with  a  pref- 
erence for  compromise  over  any  form  of  tyranny.  He 
was  a  manager  of  an  Aquarium  appointed  by  a  syndi- 
cate, and  he  managed  it  to  the  best  of  his  commercial 
ability,  regardless  of  all  other  considerations.  He  paid 
Olga  what  he  considered  a  fair  wage  as  regulated  by 
supply  and  demand,  but  it  was  not  to  his  interest  or  to 
the  interest  of  the  syndicate  that  she  should  crock  up. 
He  looked  at  her  in  the  same  way  that  an  engineer  looks 
at  a  machine.  If  he  thinks  the  machine  looks  creaky  and 
dry,  he  injects  a  little  oil.  In  the  same  way,  if  the  pianist 
is  getting  run  down,  he  fills  her  up  with  "fish  snacks." 
And  so  these  fish  suppers  became  quite  an  institution 
with  this  strangely  assorted  pair. 

What  impressed  her  was  that  during  the  meal  he  never 
spoke  to  her  at  all.  He  strode  into  the  gorgeous  estab- 
lishment with  a  splendidly  proprietary  air,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  He  selected  a  table 
and  sat  down,   motioning   where  she  was  to  sit.     He 


84  OLGA  BARDEL 

would  order  the  fish,  and  a  large  cup  of  cocoa  for  Olga, 
and  coffee  for  himself,  and  then  bury  his  red  face  in 
voluminous  newspapers  and  trade  magazines.  When  the 
fish  was  brought,  he  would  stretch  out  his  arm  and  take 
up  her  plate  and  press  his  large  flat  nose  against  her 
fish  with  a  ponderous  solemnity,  as  though  he  were  the 
sacristan  at  some  high  altar,  harboring  suspicions  that 
the  sacerdotal  offering  had  been  tampered  with  by  the 
minions  of  a  rival  faith.  After  a  few  mouthfuls  of  his 
own  fish  his  red  face  would  again  emerge  from  behind 
the  papers,  and  he  would  say: 

"Fish  all  right?" 

Olga  would  nod  and  say,  ' '  Yes,  thank  you, ' '  and  there 
the  conversation  for  the  meal  ended.  They  would  be 
out  about  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes ;  and  then  Mr.  Albu 
would  look  at  his  watch  and  say,  ' '  We  '11  be  getting  back 
now. ' ' 

Olga  found  these  suppers  a  great  help  for  getting 
through  the  evening,  and  the  fish  was  extraordinarily 
good.  It  was  always  fresh  and  browned  over  with  amaz- 
ing uniformity.  And  it  was  a  great  relief  that  Mr. 
Albu  did  not  speak.  Nevertheless  the  work  became  more 
and  more  of  a  strain,  and  she  found  that  when  she  did 
get  home  she  would  fall  into  a  dead  sleep  for  a  couple 
of  hours,  and  then  wake  up  and  hear  the  buzz  of  talking 
and  the  snapping  of  air  guns,  and  the  tunes  she  had 
been  playing  would  keep  running  through  her  head  with 
maddening  reiteration. 

She  struggled  with  the  torment  of  this  life  for  nearly 
two  months,  against  the  strain  of  giddiness,  and  the  burn- 
ing temples,  and  then  one  afternoon,  after  starting  at 
the  usual  time  and  playing  for  nearly  half-an-hour,  she 


ROLLY'S  AQUARIUM  85 

suddenly  threw  herself  on  the  keys  in  the  middle  of  a 
passage  and  burst  into  tears.  She  sobbed  and  sobbed  and 
sobbed  and  nothing  could  assuage  her.  They  gave  her 
water  and  biscuits  and  tea  and  even  brandy,  but  the  tor- 
rent of  anguish  could  not  be  stayed.  Mr.  Albu  rubbed 
her  hands  and  coaxed  her  and  tried  speaking  sharply  to 
her,  but  it  was  all  of  no  avail.  At  last  they  sent  a  boy  on 
a  bicycle  for  Uncle  Grubhofer.  The  appearance  of  this 
relation  had  an  even  more  torrential  effect  upon  her 
than  anything  else.  She  screamed  at  the  sight  of  him, 
and  burst  into  louder  and  louder  sobs.  Mr.  Albu  said 
to  Uncle  Grubhofer,  in  a  tone  of  annoyance : 

"I  told  you  she  was  too  young.  You  can't  rely  on 
'em  at  that  age — ^hysterical!  You  'd  better  take  her 
home.  Here,  Dixon,  just  ring  up  Miss  Foster,  and  tell 
her  to  come  on  at  once." 

And  so  Olga  was  taken  home,  still  shaking  with  tears. 
The  speech  which  Uncle  Grubhofer  thought  out  on  the 
way,  epitomizing  his  sense  of  the  Bardel  family's  base 
ingratitude,  and  the  lack  of  character  of  Olga  herself, 
seemed  indefinitely  deferred,  for  she  sobbed  all  the  eve- 
ning, and,  it  is  believed,  nearly  all  the  night.  And  on 
the  morrow  an  inspector  called  from  the  school  to  know 
how  it  was  that  "Olga  Bardel"  had  missed  nearly  the 
whole  term. 

Uncle  Grubhofer  had  been  expecting  this,  but  he  had 
a  shrewd  suspicion  that  the  matter  had  been  precipitated 
by  "that  Mersou-Casewell  set." 


CHAPTER  V 

CHESSLE   TERRACE 

EVERY  one  in  the  musical  world  knows  Concert- 
Director  John  Goldman  Pensiver.  Assisted  by 
an  elegant  son  with  manners  as  irresistible  as  his 
father's,  he  occupies  the  upper  part  of  a  large  house  in 
Gainsborough  Square,  where  he  conducts  what  is — to 
a  layman — a  very  mysterious  business.  He  is  sometimes 
described  as  a  "musical-miracle-monger."  He  speaks 
French,  German,  and  Italian  fluently,  and  English  with 
a  slight  lisp.  He  is  a  large,  fair-haired  man  with  a 
suave,  ingratiating  voice,  and  during  the  whole  thirty- 
five  years  of  his  career  as  a  concert-director,  there  is 
no  record  of  his  ever  having  lost  his  temper.  He  accepts 
a  very  low  commission  on  engagements  and  he  tells 
every  one  that  the  musical  profession  is  "in  a  very  bad 
way,"  nevertheless  he  manages  to  keep  up  the  establish- 
ment in  Gainsborough  Square  furnished  like  an  ances- 
tral home,  and  also  a  florid  red-brick  house,  surrounded 
by  five  acres  of  land,  at  Hindhead. 

To  penetrate  the  inner  sanctum  of  Mr.  Pensiver 's  pri- 
vate office  without  a  proper  appointment  is  as  difficult  as 
the  proverbial  difficulty  of  interviewing  the  Emperor  of 
China. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  inner  sanctum  Olga  found  herself 

86 


'  CHESSLE  TERRACE  87 

one  day,  in  company  with  Uncle  Grubhofer.  Not  being 
aware  of  the  importance  of  Mr.  Pensiver,  she  was  not  so 
impressed  by  this  successful  intrusion  as  she  was  by  the 
spaciousness  of  the  apartment  and  by  the  overpowering 
magnificence  of  the  clothes  of  a  crowd  of  people  who 
seemed  to  have  collected.  The  "crowd,"  in  effect — not 
including  Olga  and  her  uncle — only  amounted  to  four 
people,  but  they  were  people  of  so  much  assertion  and 
apparent  wealth  and  importance  that  they  gave  the  effect 
of  a  crowd.  There  were  Mr.  Pensiver  and  his  elegant 
son,  both  beautifully  dressed  and  both  voluble  and  de- 
clamatory, and  two  other  people,  a  lady  and  a  gentle- 
man called  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Du  Casson.  This  garrulous 
couple  were  also  gorgeously  appareled,  and  Mrs.  Du 
Casson  rustled  as  she  moved,  and  Mr.  Du  Casson  creaked 
with  stiff  shirts  and  new  patent-leather  boots.  Olga 
became  aware  of  another  fact  concerning  them,  and  that 
was  that  they  both  smelt  of  scent,  and  of  the  same  scent. 
She  often  wondered  in  after  life  why  it  was  that  this 
fact  seemed  peculiarly  repelling  to  her.  She  felt  it  would 
have  been  in  some  way  more  tolerable  if  they  had  each 
had  their  own  scent,  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Du  Casson  both 
exuded  a  strong  aroma  of  lily-of-the-valley  and  an  un- 
deniable atmosphere  of  material  prosperity. 

Mrs.  Du  Casson  was  large,  larger  than  her  husband, 
and  she  had  an  unnaturally  pink-and-white  complexion 
and  a  wealth  of  gold-brown  hair.  She  was  embellished 
with  quantities  of  small  jewelry  that  glittered  from  most 
surprising  parts  of  her  person.  She  had  small  diamond 
ear-rings,  and  small  diamonds  and  emeralds  nestling 
under  folds  of  chiffon  and  lace  on  her  chest,  and  glitter- 
ing things  at  her  waist  and  even  on  her  shoes.     Olga  was 


88  OLGA  BARDEL 

fascinated  by  the  interminable  revelation  of  fresh  won- 
ders. She  called  Olga  "dear,"  and  Olga  detested  her 
from  the  start. 

Mr.  Du  Casson  was  rotund,  with  curly  black  hair  turn- 
ing gray,  and  a  very  black  mustache.  He  wore  a  per- 
petual, self-satisfied  grin  revealing  most  resplendent 
teeth. 

All  of  these  people  seemed  to  be  in  a  high  state  of  ex- 
citement, and  they  all  talked  at  once  and  tried  to  shout 
each  other  down,  with  the  exception  of  Uncle  Grubhofer, 
who  stood  moodily  in  the  background  and  puffed  at  a 
cigar. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Pensiver  junior  opened  the  lid  of  a 
grand  piano,  and  amidst  the  din  of  conversation  she  un- 
derstood that  she  was  to  play.  She  took  off  her  gloves 
and  obeyed.  She  played  as  well  as  she  could,  although 
she  found  the  atmosphere  extremely  disconcerting.  Mr. 
Du  Casson  kept  humming  snatches  of  the  phrase  she  was 
playing,  while  Mrs.  Du  Casson  kept  up  a  running  fire  of 
superlatives.  Mr.  Pensiver  rustled  papers  and  Uncle 
Grubhofer  had  an  unfortunate  habit  of  clearing  his 
throat  during  a  soft  passage.  Nevertheless  when  she  had 
finished,  the  company  seemed  extremely  satisfied.  They 
all  talked  at  once  as  before,  and  Mr.  Du  Casson  came 
over  and  fondled  her  in  a  way  she  resented.  She  could 
not  follow  the  gist  of  the  conversation  that  then  took 
place,  but  just  as  they  were  going  IMrs.  Du  Casson  said 
to  her: 

"Would  you  like  to  come  and  live  with  me,  dear?" 

The  question  was  so  unexpected  that  Olga  could  not 
bring  herself  to  answer.  She  merely  wriggled  and 
blushed,  and  Mr.  Du  Casson  stroked  her  hair  and  patted 


CIIESSLE  TERRACE  89 

her  once  more,  and  she  and  Uncle  Grubhofer  returned 
to  Canning  Town. 

And  then  the  most  surprising  thing  happened.  A 
week  later  she  was  suddenly  bundled  into  a  four-wheeled 
cab,  with  a  large  brown  paper  parcel  that  contained  all 
her  belongings,  and  sent  over  to  an  address  near  Regent 's 
Park. 

Here  she  was  received  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Du  Casson  and 
was  given  a  small  bedroom  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and 
another  room  underneath  where  she  was  allowed  to  prac- 
tise. She  was  given  an  entirely  new  outfit  of  clothes 
and  most  beautiful  things  to  eat.  She  went  to  bed  at 
night  brooding  over  this  amazing  change  in  her  fortunes, 
and  vainly  trying  to  analyze  the  motives  of  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer who  should  have  consented  to  it. 

The  material  satisfaction  that  she  derived  from  these 
changed  conditions  was  somewhat  tempered  the  next  day 
by  the  discovery  of  the  fa.ct  that  Mr.  Du  Casson  pro- 
posed to  give  her  music  lessons.  She  had  taken  an  in- 
stinctive dislike  to  Mrs.  Du  Casson,  but  Mr.  Du  Casson 
was  to  her — anathema.  She  hated  the  patronizing  and 
endearing  way  he  spoke  to  her,  and  in  the  course  of  a 
few  days  she  was  convinced  that  his  method  of  teaching 
her  was  somehow  wrong.  She  could  not  argue  with  him, 
but  she  felt  a  fundamental  contempt  for  the  man  and  his 
character,  and  she  was  astute  enough  to  know  that  if  his 
character  was  contemptible,  his  ideas  of  music  would 
probably  be  not  much  better.  She  took  her  meals — with 
the  exception  of  dinner — with  I\Ir.  and  Mrs.  Du  Casson, 
and  she  practised  six  hours  a  day.  In  the  afternoon  she 
would  be  sent  for  a  walk  in  Regent's  Park  with  one  of 
the  maids,  and  usually  accompanied  by  a  swarm  of  ex- 


90  OLGA  BARDEL 

pensive  little  dogs  that  were  Mrs.  Du  Casson's  pets.  The 
house  was  tall  and  gaily  decorated,  and  seemed  to  be 
the  center  of  a  good  deal  of  social  life.  Noisy  dinner- 
parties frequently  took  place  in  the  evening  and  occa- 
sionally she  would  be  sent  for,  and  made  to  play  to 
people.  Most  of  the  guests  seemed  to  be  musicians  of 
varying  degrees  of  celebrity,  or  people  of  position  or 
patronage  in  the  musical  world.  Some  of  them  were  oc- 
casionally sympathetic  and  kind  to  her,  but  the  majority 
seemed  entirely  insincere  and  treated  her  like  a  toy.  At 
first  the  comfort  and  cleanliness  of  this  new  life  excited 
her,  and  in  spite  of  the  importunate  lessons  from  Mr. 
Du  Casson  she  went  through  the  day  in  a  spirit  of  ela- 
tion. But  gradually  this  sense  of  excitement  cooled,  and 
when  she  became  tired  at  night  a  feeling  of  dejection 
and  loneliness  would  come  over  her.  She  would  wonder 
about  Irene  and  Karl  and  Montague,  and  would  suffer  a 
strange  nostalgia  for  the  mean  streets.  She  saw  nothing 
of  her  brothers  and  sisters,  nor  even  of  Uncle  Grubhofer, 
and  she  felt  surprised  at  this.  Once  she  ventured  to 
speak  to  Mrs.  Du  Casson  about  them,  but  that  lady 
seemed  very  reticent  and  did  not  encourage  her  enquiries. 
As  the  months  went  by  the  atmosphere  of  the  house  in 
Chessle  Terrace  became  to  the  child  more  and  more  in- 
supportable. On  a  certain  day  she  felt  that  she  could 
not  bear  it  any  longer.  She  found  out  that  the  Du  Cas- 
sons  were  going  to  be  out  all  the  afternoon,  so  soon  after 
lunch  she  slipped  out  and  started  to  walk  to  Canning 
Town.  She  had  a  few  coppers,  but  she  had  not  the  cour- 
age to  face  the  ordeal  of  taking  buses  or  trains.  It  took 
her  two  hours  to  reach  her  old  neighborhood,  and  at  the 
sight  and  smell  of  the  dreary  streets  an  unaccountable 


CIIESSLE  TERRACE  91 

excitement  possessed  her.  She  walked  rapidly  past  the 
groups  of  noisy  children  and  found  the  old  house.  The 
front  door  was  open  and  she  crept  in.  She  went  stealth- 
ily up  the  stairs  and  then  paused  and  peeped  into  the 
Bardels'  sitting-room.  Irene  was  ironing,  leaning  over 
a  table,  and  her  face  was  perspiring,  and  some  linen  was 
hanging  over  a  line  across  the  room ;  some  plates  and 
saucers  unwashed-up  from  the  midday  meal  were  piled 
up  on  the  bed. 

She  could  not  account  for  the  sudden  wave  of  emo- 
tion that  swept  over  her.  Irene  looked  tired  and  hot  and 
unhappy,  and  so  very,  very  poor.  And  she  was  her  sis- 
ter !  Why  was  she  bedecked  in  nice  clothes  and  enjoying 
comfort  and  good  food,  while  her  sister  was  wearing  out 
her  life  bending  over  that  steaming  board  ? 

She  suddenly  burst  into  the  room  and  threw  her  arms 
round  Irene.  Irene  screamed  and  dropped  her  iron. 
She  was  very  frightened. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried  out.  "  'Ave  they  given  you 
the  bird?" 

Olga  did  not  answer.  She  clung  to  her  sister  and 
cried. 

Irene  was  alarmed.  She  pushed  her  away  and  said 
excitedly : 

"What  is  it?  What  's  the  matter?  What  'ave  you 
come  for?" 

But  the  little  girl  could  not  control  her  violent  emo- 
tion, and  after  a  time  Irene  sniffed  and  said  in  a  lower 
voice : 

"Oh,  chuck  it,  for  Gawd's  sake!" 

Then  they  sat  there  silently,  Olga  shivering,  and  Irene 
looking  at  her  furtively.     At  last  Irene  made  some  tea, 


92  OLGA  BARDEL 

and  they  drank  it  in  big  gulps,  and  Olga  observed  the 
hungry  way  that  Irene  ate  her  thick  bread-and-butter. 
But  Irene  was  not  satisfied.  It  was  all  very  suspicious, 
and  when  the  first  cup  of  tea  was  consumed,  she  said 
again : 

"  'Ave  they  given  you  the  bird?" 

Olga  shook  her  head  and  her  lips  were  still  quivering. 

'  *  Wliat  'ave  you  come  for,  then  ? ' ' 

Olga  looked  down,  and  at  last  she  said : 

"I  wanted  to  come." 

Irene  looked  at  her  quickly.  She  gulped  some  more 
tea  and  then  asked: 

' '  'Ow  do  you  get  on  there  ?  Do  they  give  you  plenty 
of  grub?" 

Olga  nodded  again,  and  looked  round  the  room.  Sud- 
denly she  said : 

"I  wish  you  could  go  back  instead  of  me,"  and  then 
unreasonably  she  cried.  The  whole  thing  was  entirely 
incomprehensible  to  Irene.  She  still  harbored  a  sus- 
picion that  Olga  really  had  "got  the  bird."  Otherwise 
what  was  she  blubbering  about?  Hadn't  she  plenty  of 
grub  and  warmth  and  clothing?  Was  there  anything  in 
this  room  in  Sendrake  Road  that  she  was  envious  of? 
What  was  the  child 's  game  ? 

"You  'd  better  go  before  Uncle  Grubhofer  cops  yer," 
she  said  at  last.  She  took  up  her  ironing,  and  was  con- 
scious that  Olga's  eyes  were  on  her.  Nevertheless  the 
little  girl  prepared  to  go,  but  when  she  reached  the 
door  she  suddenly  turned  and  came  back,  and  said  in 
a  quivering  voice: 

"I  hope  you  're  getting  on  all  right,  you,  and  Karl, 
and  Montague. ' ' 


CHESSLE  TERRACE  93 

And  then  she  sobbed  very  violently.  Irene  felt  a 
curious  contraction  within  herself;  it  was  inexplicable, 
but  no  one  could  stand  up  against  the  flood  of  this  emo- 
tionalism. She  snuffled  and  turned  her  back.  Suddenly 
she  felt  Olga's  arms  round  her  neck  and  her  lips  on  her 
cheek.  She  gave  a  little  whimper  and  tried  to  say,  "Oh, 
chuck  it!"  but  the  words  would  not  come.  She  pecked 
her  sister's  cheek  in  turn  and  pressed  her  in  a  mild  em- 
brace, and  then  broke  away  and  busied  herself  at  the 
fireplace.  Olga  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes  and  hur- 
ried from  the  room. 

She  was  thoroughly  exhausted  and  footsore  when  she 
got  back  to  Chessle  Terrace,  but  when  she  lay  her  head 
upon  the  pillow  that  night,  she  felt  strangely  comforted. 


CHAPTER  VI 

*'THE   ARMENIAN   FROCK " 

THE  debut  of  the  Child-Wonder,  Olga  Barjelski, 
at  the  Queen's  Hall  was  surely  one  of  the 
most  incredible  things  within  the  memory  of 
music-lovers.  The  public  had  been  forewarned  of  it 
three  months  ahead  by  the  following  paragraph  ap- 
pearing in  all  the  daily  papers: 

WONDERFUL  CHILD  PIANIST 

A  Romantic  Story 

The  famous  Professor  of  Music,  Louis  du  Casson,  is  to  be  con- 
gratulated on  a  remariiable  and  romantic  discovery.  Visiting  the 
East  l*]nd  of  London  a  short  time  ago  on  philanthropic  work,  he 
happened  to  hear  a  little  girl  strumming  on  an  old  upright  piano. 
The  performance  of  one  phrase  was  sulGcient  to  inform  the  ex- 
perienced ear  of  the  professor  that  here  was  a  genius.  He  made 
inquiries  and  discovered  that  the  little  girl  was  named  Olga 
Barjelski.  She  is  nine  years  old  and  the  daughter  of  Polish 
parents  who  had  settled  in  Turkey.  The  whole  family  were  mas- 
sacred in  a  pogrom,  being  taken  for  Armenians,  except  this  little 
girl  who  was  smuggled  out  of  the  country  at  night  in  a  basket 
labeled  "vegetable  produce,"  and  convoyed  aross  tiie  border  into 
Greece  by  an  old  Magyar  woman.  This  old  woman — who  has 
since  died — was  a  mystic,  and  sincerely  believed  that  the  child  was 
a  reincarnation  of  Chopin,  the  great  Polish  composer.  She 
brought  tlie  child  to  London  and  gave  her  into  the  care  of  a  dis- 
tant relation,   in   whose  house  the   famous  professor  heard  her. 

94 


(< 


THE  ARMENIAN  FROCK"  95 


The  story,  of  course,  with  regard  to  the  reincarnation  may  or 
may  not  be  accepted  by  those  who  believe  in  these  things,  but 
there  is  no  doubt  but  that  the  child  is  a  very  remarkable  pianist. 
Professor  Du  Casson  declares  that  she  plays  with  an  almost 
uncanny  sense  of  lxpkbiejsce,  which  in  a  child  of  nine  is  unac- 
countable. She  will  have  a  few  finishing  lessons  with  Professor 
Du  Casson  and  will  make  her  d^but  at  the  Queen's  Hall  in 
October. 

Up  to  the  day  she  was  kept  hard  at  work.  She  had 
devoted  practically  the  whole  year  to  that  one  program, 
till  she  knew  everything  so  slickly  that  she  had  hardly 
to  think  about  it.  She  had  broad  long  fingers  capable 
of  any  pianistic  demands,  and  Mr.  Du  Casson  certainly 
initiated  her  into  the  mystery  of  thrills  and  effects.  The 
paragraphs  had  appeared  in  the  newspapers  at  intervals, 
becoming  more  and  more  frequent  as  the  day  ap- 
proached, working  up  to  a  crescendo  of  large  bills,  ad- 
vertisements, and  lithographs  of  her  portrait,  whilst  two 
dozen  hungry-looking  sandwichmen  paraded  the  West 
End  for  a  week  beforehand,  bearing  the  insistent  posters. 

People  who  were  present  at  that  debut  are  not  likely 
to  forget  it.  The  hall  was  packed  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
and  though  it  would  be  invidious  to  say  that  the  ma- 
jority of  people  had  paid  for  their  seats,  there  was  a 
surprising  number  of  people  of  influence  in  the  social 
and  musical  world.  When  she  came  on  to  the  platform 
there  was  a  roar  of  welcome,  mingled  with  a  buzz  of  ex- 
clamatory conversation  and  laughter,  which  subsided  into 
a  dead  stillness  of  anticipation  as  she  took  her  seat  at 
the  piano.  She  was  not  nervous.  She  loved  playing 
to  people  and  she  knew  she  could  do  it.  If  the  Queen's 
Hall  had  been  three  times  the  size,  it  would  have  af- 
fected her  little  more  than  if  she  had  been  playing  in  a 


96  OLGA  BARDEL 

room,  providing  that  the  people  could  hear  and  wanted 
to  hear.  And  in  her  platform  manner  she  had  been  per- 
fectly schooled  by  Mr.  Du  Casson.  She  was  dressed  in 
a  somber  but  dramatic  fashion  as  became  one  who  had 
nearly  been  massacred  by  the  Turks.  She  had  on  a 
broad  black  and  white  check  frock,  and  her  long  legs 
were  in  black  stockings.  Her  hair,  parted  in  the  middle 
and  brushed  right  back,  hung  in  two  huge  plaits  right  to 
her  waist  and  were  tied  at  the  ends  with  scarlet  bows. 
She  walked  quickly  on  to  the  platform — some  people 
thought  that  her  legs  were  rather  long  for  nine ! — ^look- 
ing neither  to  the  right  nor  left  till  she  reached  the 
piano,  then  she  gave  the  people  two  solemn  nods,  and  sat 
down.  There  was  still  a  violent  buzz  of  comment  going 
on,  and  the  noise  of  people  who  could  not  find  their  seats, 
and  other  people  hushing  each  other  up.  But  Olga  was 
in  no  hurry.  She  took  out  a  handkerchief  and  wiped 
her  hands  and  looked  at  the  piano.  Then  she  looked 
solemnly  round  the  hall  again  and  waited.  She  waited 
until  there  was  a  dead  silence  and  even  then  she  did  not 
seem  in  a  hurry. 

At  last  as  though  the  music  had  already  commenced 
in  her  mind,  she  lifted  her  arms  above  her  head  and 
held  them  there,  and  then  crashed  down  upon  the  keys. 
From  that  first  chord  she  never  lost  her  grip  upon  the 
audience.  She  sat  there,  the  quaint  little  figure  with 
her  intent,  strained  face  unconscious  of  anything  except 
the  music,  and  her  fat  podgy  little  arms  pounding  out 
most  amazing  passages  and  runs.  She  seemed  to  be 
juggling  with  emotions  she  could  not  possibly  under- 
stand, and  sending  vibrant  thrills  through  people  at  most 
unexpected  moments.     Sometimes  she  would  play  a  pas- 


tl 


THE  ARMENIAN  FROCK"  97 


sage  so  brilliantly  that  a  lot  of  them  would  laugh  iu  the 
same  way  that  "Levitch  himself"  laughed.  Her  tech- 
nique was  indeed  remarkable,  and  Du  Casson  had  chosen 
just  those  pieces  that  showed  it  to  advantage.  At  the 
end  of  each  piece  she  rose  solemnly  and  bowed,  and  she 
almost  ran  off  the  platform  between  the  groups.  She  did 
not  give  them  a  smile  till  nearly  the  end,  when  a  large 
bouquet  of  carnations  was  handed  up.  When  it  was  all 
over  the  applause  w^as  tremendous,  and  she  played  two 
encores  (as  arranged  beforehand  with  Mr.  Du  Casson), 
and  even  then  the  people  recalled  her  again  and  again. 

At  last  she  escaped  to  the  artists'  room,  panting, 
flushed,  and  wildly  excited,  and  people  poured  in  and 
kissed  her  and  flattered  her.  Mr.  and  IMrs.  Du  Casson 
were  in  the  highest  spirits  and  both  kissed  her,  and  intro- 
duced her  to  a  lot  of  people  whose  names  she  did  not 
catch.  Mr.  John  Goldman  Pensiver  cried  "Bravo! 
Bravo!"  and  warmly  shook  her  hand. 

Olga  did  not  sleep  that  night  at  all.  Everything  she 
had  played  kept  racing  through  her  mind.  She  went 
over  her  whole  program  again  and  again,  including  two 
slips  she  had  made  in  the  sonata,  and  a  smudge  in  one  of 
the  studies.  And  then  the  applause!  It  thrilled  her. 
It  was  very  thrilling  to  have  people  applauding  and  flat- 
tering you.  She  tried  to  think  of  all  the  things  they 
had  said.  She  w^ondered  whether  ]\Iiss  Merson  was  there, 
and  Irene  and  Karl  and  Montague.  None  of  them  had 
appeared,  not  even  Uncle  Grubhofer,  though  she  believed 
he  had  been  there,  for  she  heard  some  one  say  that  he 
w^as  by  the  box-office  (wherever  that  was).  She  wanted 
to  talk  to  some  one,  but  all  the  time  passages  from  the 
sonata  kept  racing  through  her  mind.     Life  had  become 


98  OLGA  BARDEL 

very  violent,  and  she  was  not  sure  whether  she  was  glad 
or  sorry. 

When  she  came  down  in  the  morning  the  breakfast- 
room  seemed  full  of  newspapers  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Du 
Casson  were  vociferously  shouting  quotations  from  the 
various  critiques  to  one  another.  They  both  seemed 
rather  disturbed  and  disappointed  about  the  press,  and 
were  less  effusive  to  Olga  than  they  had  been  the  night 
previously. 

"Oh,  well,  we  shall  see  what  Pensiver  can  do  with 
this,"  seemed  to  be  Mrs.  Du  Casson 's  verdict.  That 
gentleman  arrived  about  eleven  o'clock,  also  with  a  col- 
lection of  papers,  and  it  was  largely  in  the  manner  with 
which  he  dealt  with  these  same  criticisms  that  he  revealed 
that  Napoleonic  quality,  which  gave  him  a  unique  posi- 
tion among  concert-directors  of  the  time.  In  the  first 
place  he  railed  the  Du  Cassons  and  heartened  them  by 
saying  that  the  critiques  were  excellent,  ' '  could  n  't  be 
better."  He  then  proceeded  to  draw  up  his  advertise- 
ment for  the  next  day. 

Some  of  the  papers  of  course  were  entirely  enthusias- 
tic, as  enthusiastic  as  the  audience,  and  from  these  he  ex- 
tracted the  most  enthusiastic  sentences.  Others  were 
milder  and  had  to  be  considerably  curtailed,  whilst  some 
were  extremely  bad,  and  it  was  in  dealing  with  these 
that  Pensiver  showed  his  genius.  One  of  the  soberest 
journals  whose  judgment  carried  considerable  weight 
devoted  a  paragraph  to  deploring  the  practice  of  foisting 
immature  artists  on  the  public  in  the  guise  of  infant 
prodigies,  of  passing  talented  children  through  a  hot- 
house training  for  breeding  an  artificial  technique  which 
when  it  is  acquired  can  have  nothing  to  express.     It  con- 


''THE  ARMENIAN  FROCK"  99 

tended  that  in  this  present  instance  of  the  little  girl  Olga 
Barjelski — as  an  exhibition  of  finger  talent  and  precocity- 
it  was  indeed  remarkable,  but  as  an  exposition  of  the  art 
of  the  piano  it  was — simply  ridiculous !  Mr.  John  Gold- 
man Pensiver  ran  his  pencil  through  this  and  quoted, 
"As  an  exposition  of  finger  talent  and  precocity  it  was 
indeed  remarkable" — The  Temple;  another  journal 
had  a  notice  in  the  same  strain,  only  ending  up  with 
references  to  her  frock  and  appearance,  and  said  that 
"certain  platform  manners  cleverly  manipulated  and  an 
engaging  personality  undoubtedly  combined  to  account 
for  the  tumultuous  applause  that  the  friendly  audience 
seemed  to  consider  that  the  performance  merited." 

From  this  he  quoted,  "Engaging  personality  ...  tu- 
multuous applause" — The  Meteor.  The  next  morning 
he  had  half  a  column  of  advertisements  of  press  cut- 
tings of  a  like  nature  in  every  London  daily  paper  and 
the  leading  provincial  ones.  And  the  advertisement 
was  headed,  "Phenomenal  Success  of  the  Child 
Wonder."  And  then  followed  an  announcement  that 
owing  to  the  colossal  success  of  Miss  Olga  Barjelski 's 
debut,  Mr.  John  Goldman  Pensiver  had  the  pleasure  to 
announce  a  series  of  three  further  recitals  in  Decem- 
ber, February,  and  JMarch. 

There  was  a  certain  amount  of  trouble  about  this, 
because  Pensiver  wanted  to  give  the  recitals  at  once,  but 
Du  Casson  knew  that  it  was  impossible  to  produce  an- 
other program  so  soon,  so  December,  Februaiy,  and 
March  were  announced,  but  in  the  meantime  the  good 
Pensiver  did  not  mean  to  be  idle  or  to  allow  his  client's 
protegee  to  be  idle  either.  He  flooded  the  London  and 
provincial   press  with  further   paragraphs   and   adver- 


100  OLGA  BARDEL 

tisements.  He  then  approached  the  secretary  of  a  very 
old  musical  society  whose  funds  were  not  in  too  good  an 
order  and  offered  to  buy  fifty  pounds'  worth  of  tickets 
for  one  of  their  next  season's  concerts  if  they  would 
engage  Olga  Barjelski.  We  blush  to  say  that  this  offer 
was  accepted.  He  practically  bought  another  impor- 
tant orchestral  engagement  in  London,  and  one  in  the 
North.  He  then  drew  up  an  advertisement  contract  with 
most  of  the  leading  London  papers  to  cover  a  period  of 
six  months.  He  interviewed  the  advertisement  man- 
agers personally,  and  when  possible  took  them  out  to 
lunch.     When  they  arrived  at  the  coffee  and  cigar  stage 

Mr.  Pensiver  would  say,  "By  the  way,  Mr.  ,  if  we 

give  you  this  contract,  you  might  ask  your  editor  to  let 
us  down  a  little  lightly,  you  know,  eh?  Last  time  the 
tone  of  your  paper  was  not  too  friendly  if  I  remember 
rightly."  And  the  advertisement  editor,  with  the  bou- 
quet of  an  expensive  port  wine  still  in  his  nostrils,  would 
say,  "All  right,  my  dear  chap,  I  '11  say  a  word  about  it 
at  the  office."  Every  daily  paper  earns  its  bread  and 
cheese  on  advertisements,  and  it  is  to  be  deplored  that 
the  suave  suggestion  of  Mr.  Pensiver  had  its  effect  on 
the  majority  of  cases.  At  her  next  recital  a  great  num- 
ber of  the  papers  noted  a  marked  improvement,  and 
generally  took  her  performance  more  seriously.  And 
then  people — who  in  the  ordinary  way  took  no  interest 
in  music  whatever — began  to  say  in  drawing-rooms,  ' '  By 
the  way,  my  dear,  have  you  heard  that  little  girl,  Olga 
Barjelski?  She  's  perfectly  sweet!"  and  the  friend 
would  answer,  "Oh,  yes;  she  's  an  Armenian  or  some- 
thing, isn't  she?  Nearly  murdered!  I  must  go  and 
hear  her."     And  then  the  conversation  would  drift  to 


<( 


THE  ARMENIAN  FROCK"  101 


the  terrible  age  we  live  in,  but  the  friend  would  not  for- 
get, and  would  eventually  have  to  go  and  pay  half  a 
crown  to  hear  Olga  Barjelski  because  evenjhodij  was 
talking  about  her.  And  then  the  question  of  the  rein- 
carnation of  Chopin  was  discussed  and  it  was  definitely 
established  in  an  occult  review  that  one  could  be  male 
in  one  reincarnation  and  female  in  the  next. 

Mr.  Pensiver  did  his  work  thoroughly  but  did  not 
escape  trouble,  and  the  trouble  originated  in  this  way. 
Uncle  Grubhofer  had  invested  £333-6-8  in  the  syndicate 
to  run  Olga,  but  he  did  not  mention  to  the  syndicate 
that  he  had  floated  his  own  share  in  a  separate  concern. 

He  persuaded  a  gentleman  named  Gregory  Bausch, 
who  ran  an  agency  for  dealing  in  motor  accessories,  to 
invest  a  hundred  pounds  in  the  scheme,  and  another  man 
named  Ben.  Carter,  who  was  a  pawnbroker  and  money- 
lender, to  invest  fifty  pounds,  whilst  two  other  gentle- 
men whom  he  met  "in  the  course  of  business"  put 
up  thirty  pounds  each,  and  also  Karl,  who  had  been 
surprisingly  successful  in  his  sales  of  trinkets  during 
the  last  year.  It  is  difficult  to  know  what  means  of  per- 
suasion Uncle  Grubhofer  employed  to  get  these  various 
gentlemen  to  risk  money  which  they  valued  more  than 
human  life,  or  what  papers  or  securities  they  held  over 
him  in  the  matter,  but  they  certainly  took  the  shares. 

Now  when  Olga  began  to  be  a  popular  success  and 
was  seen  to  be  playing  everywhere,  they  began  to  want 
to  know  what  returns  were  coming  in,  and  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer himself  began  to  be  suspicious.  It  was  difficult 
for  Mr.  Pensiver  to  explain  that  one  can  be  a  great  suc- 
cess and  yet  not  make  much  money.  ""We  must  wait," 
said  Mr.  Pensiver  expansively.     "This  next  year  will 


102  OLGA  BAKDEIi 

show."  But  after  a  few  months  Uncle  Grubhofer's 
syndicate  became  restless,  and  Uncle  Grubhofer  himself 
became  restless,  and  there  were  stormy  scenes  in  Pen- 
siver's  office.  Members  of  the  syndicate  followed  Olga 
about,  and  danced  attendance  at  box-ofiSces.  They  were 
dissatisfied  with  the  hold  that  Uncle  Grubhofer  had  over 
Mr.  Pensiver,  whom  they  suspected  of  robbing  them,  as 
so  indeed  he  may  have  been.  Moreover,  the  Du  Cassons 
began  to  object  to  these  friends  of  Mr.  Grubhofer's 
always  being  in  evidence  and  asking  questions. 

Olga  herself  was  only  partially  aware  of  these  things. 
She  had  to  work  tremendously  hard  on  new  programs, 
and  also  on  learning  concertos.  When  she  was  not  work- 
ing she  felt  bewildered  and  unhappy.  Sometimes  she 
would  go  and  hear  other  musicians  play  and  then  she 
was  conscious  of  something  lacking  in  herself.  One  day 
she  heard  Harold  Bauer  at  the  Queen's  Hall,  and  his 
playing  revealed  a  new  world  to  her.  It  made  her  feel 
that  she  wanted  to  go  away  somewhere  all  alone,  and 
think  things  over. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  year  Mr.  Pensiver  revealed  to 
the  syndicate  that  the  expenditure  had  so  far  been  £1135 
and  the  net  takings  from  engagements  and  recitals  £475. 
He  stated  that  he  considered  this  entirely  satisfactory, 
and  an  extended  provincial  tour  had  now  been  booked, 
from  which  he  expected  great  things. 

The  tour  started  at  Wimbledon,  and  was  to  last  three 
months,  Olga  giving  a  recital  practically  every  night. 
Enormous  bills  were  sent  ahead  announcing  that  Olga 
Barjelski,  the  child  marvel,  the  reincarnation  of  Chopin, 
who  made  the  sensation  of  the  London  season,  M^ould 
positively  appear  on  such  and  such  a  date.     The  story 


(< 


THE  ARMENIAN  FROCK"  103 


of  the  Armenian  massacre  was  embellished  with  more 
lurid  details,  and  her  own  portrait,  brooding  despoud- 
ingly  at  the  piano,  was  perpetrated  in  color.  Moreover, 
for  this  tour  she  wore  on  the  platform  a  scarlet  dress 
with  white  embroidery,  and  a  sort  of  bead  head-dress. 
It  was  Mrs.  Du  Casson's  idea  of  an  Armenian  costume, 
"anyway  near  enough  for  the  provinces."  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  know  why  a  little  Polish  girl  should  wear  an 
Armenian  dress  when  she  was  trying  to  escape  from 
Turkey,  but  it  was  mentioned  on  the  program  that  it 
was  the  identical  frock  she  had  on  when  she  crossed  the 
border  in  a  basket  labeled  "vegetable  produce." 

On  the  first  night  of  the  tour  there  was  an  unfortunate 
scene.  Karl  turned  up  with  Mr.  Bausch  and  another 
gentleman  of  Uncle  Grubhofer's  syndicate.  Karl  was 
drunk,  and  they  demanded  access  to  the  box-office,  which 
I\Ir.  Pensiver  refused.  They  squabbled  and  called  each 
other  names  in  the  foyer  and  in  the  corridors,  and 
ended  up  with  a  regrettable  incident  in  Olga's  dressing- 
room  just  before  she  was  due  to  go  on.  The  child  was  so 
upset  that  the  recital  had  to  be  delayed  nearly  an  hour. 
The  police  were  called  in  to  turn  Karl  and  his  friends 
out,  and  IMrs.  Du  Casson  had  to  drink  a  large  quantity 
of  brandy  to  steady  herself,  whilst  Mr.  Du  Casson  hid 
till  it  was  all  over.  Olga  was  hysterical,  and  it  seemed 
at  one  time  that  she  would  not  be  able  to  play  at  all. 
When  the  other  men  had  disappeared  ]\Ir.  Du  Casson 
turned  up  and  started  coaxing  her,  and  then,  when  she 
seemed  obdurate,  his  dark  eyes  blazed  with  anger,  Mr. 
Pensiver  came  in  and  fumed,  and  fussed,  and  patted  her 
hands,  and  at  last  Mrs.  Du  Casson  insisted  on  her  having 
a  little  brandy.     It  burnt  her  throat,  but  it  seemed  to 


104  OLGA  BARDEL 

give  her  courage  of  a  sort,  and  Mrs.  Du  Casson  powdered 
her  face  and  pushed  her  on  to  the  platform.  It  was  a 
wretched  evening,  and  she  forgot  once  or  twice  in  pieces 
that  she  knew  quite  well. 

She  derived  no  pleasure  from  this  triumphal  tour. 
Mr.  or  Mrs.  Du  Casson — and  occasionally  both — accom- 
panied her  everywhere,  and  a  young  man  from  Mr. 
Pensiver's  office,  and  sometimes  ]\Ir.  Pensiver  himself. 
She  got  thoroughly  sick  of  the  train  journeys  and  the 
hotels,  and  hated  the  sight  of  her  poster  in  the  streets 
and  of  her  Armenian  dress.  She  lost  interest  in  her 
program,  and  played  mechanically.  Nevertheless  the 
tour  was  in  some  respects  a  success.  The  halls  were 
nearly  always  full,  and  the  audience  enthusiastic.  The 
Du  Cassons  seemed  pleased  with  her  and  had  noisy 
supper  parties,  and  Mrs.  Du  Casson  occasionally  gave 
her  money  to  buy  anything  she  wanted.  One  day  she 
received  a  letter  from  Irene  which  ran : 

Dear  Olga: 

I  here  you  are  doing  fine  in  the  country  can  you  send  us  a  bit 
things  are  very  bad  and  Montague  has  got  the  bird  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer  has  moved  out  let  his  rooms  to  some  people  and  too  childrun 
he  has  taking  a  shop  in  the  Wallace  road 

Your  affoctionat  sister  Ibene. 

Olga's  first  instinct  on  reading  this  letter  was  to  go 
straight  back  home  and  take  everything  she  had.  It  was 
her  first  recollection  of  Irene  making  any  sort  of  ad- 
vance to  her,  and  the  thought  gave  her  a  little  thrill  of 
satisfaction.  On  maturer  consideration,  however,  she 
collected  all  the  money  she  had,  which  she  found 
amounted  to  seventeen  shillings,  and  decided  to  send  it  to 
Irene.  She  laboriously  addressed  an  envelope  and  wrote 
a  note  as  follows : 


"THE  ARMENIAN  FROCK"  105 

Dear  Irene 

I  was  so  please  to  here  from  you  I  was  sorry  to  here  things 
bad  what  a  pity  about  Montague  getting  the  bird  I  hope  he  will 
soon  get  in  again  It  is  very  nice  travcUin  about  I  enclose  the 
munney  I  send  my  love  to  Montague  and  to  Karl  and  to  you 
with  my  love 

Your   lovin  sister 

Olga. 

This  letter  was  written  on  the  notepaper  of  the  King's 
Palace  Hotel,  Hull. 

A  week  later  Olga  received  another  letter  from  Irene. 
It  was  to  thank  her  for  the  postal  orders  and  to  say 
that  things  were  very  bad  still,  and  whenever  Olga  had 
any  money  would  she  send  it.  xVnd  so  it  came  about 
that  any  money  that  ]\Irs.  Du  Casson  handed  to  her  was 
converted  into  postal  orders,  and  sent  to  Irene. 

And  then  one  day  she  had  a  letter  from  INIontague  to 
say  that  he  heard  she  was  doing  well  in  the  provinces. 
He  was  out  of  a  job  himself,  and  could  she  lend  him  three 
pounds  which  he  would  pay  directly  he  got  a  job  ? 

This  letter  distressed  Olga  very  much,  for  when  it 
came  she  had  not  a  penny  in  the  world,  having  just  sent 
her  last  shilling  to  Irene ;  Mrs.  Du  Casson  was  not  there, 
and  Mr.  Du  Casson  having  the  matter  explained  to  him 
vaguely  waved  his  arras,  and  said  he  couldn't  do  any- 
thing in  the  matter;  she  had  better  speak  to  his  wife. 
This  was  at  Leicester  and  she  noticed  that  the  hall  was 
very  full  that  night,  and  she  knew  that  people  paid  money 
as  they  went  in  at  the  door.  An  idea  occurred  to  her. 
She  waited  till  after  the  performance  and  then  she  spoke 
to  the  young  man  of  Mr.  Pcnsiver's.  She  asked  him 
confidentially  if  he  could  n't  give  her  some  of  the  money 
which  he  had  taken  at  the  door,  as  she  wanted  some  to 


106  OLGA  BARDEL 

send  to  a  friend.  The  young  man  looked  puzzled,  and 
then  laughed,  and  said  he  was  afraid  he  could  n  't  do 
that.  He  then  said  that  if  it  was  only  a  small  amount 
she  wanted  of  course  he  would  be  very  pleased  to  oblige 
her  out  of  his  own  pocket.  She  would  not  accept  this 
arrangement,  and  lay  awake  that  night  puzzling  over 
the  problem  of  economics.  It  seemed  strange  that  if 
money  were  handed  in  by  people  who  only  came  to  hear 
her  play  that  she  could  not  have  some  of  it  to  do  with 
what  she  liked.  Her  musings  on  this  theme  were  fur- 
ther disturbed  by  another  letter  that  came  two  days 
later.     It  was  from  Karl. 

Dear  Olga 

I  expect  Uncle  G has  told  you  I  invested  money  in  your 

career.  This  quite  apart  from  what  I  have  spent  on  your  keep 
cloths  ect.  Since  investing  this  money  I  have  had  no  return 
whatever.  I  shall  be  glad  therefor  if  you  will  make  inquiries 
about  this  as  I  hear  you  are  making  a  lot  of  money  and  I  am 

very  hard  up.     Uncle  G has  left  here.     If  you  cannot  make 

that  swine  Pensiver  give  proper  account  perhaps  you  can  spring 
me  a  bit  on  your  own  as  I  have  to  meet  a  bill  this  week. 

Yr  affec:  bros. 

Karl. 

This  letter  seemed  to  make  things  more  difficult  and 
incomprehensible  than  ever.  What  did  Karl  mean  by 
"investing  money  in  your  career"  and  "making  Pensiver 
give  a  proper  account"?  It  occurred  to  her  on  the  face 
of  it  that  there  was  a  conspiracy  to  rob  her  brothers 
and  sister,  and  the  smug  Mr.  Pensiver  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it.  It  stood  to  reason  that  if  people  came  to  hear 
her  play  and  paid  for  it  that  the  money  should  go  rather 
to  Karl  and  Montague  and  Irene,  than  to  Mr.  Pensiver. 


"THE  ARMENIAN  FROCK"  107 

It  was  strange  that  all  three  should  have  written  to  her 
the  same  week.  She  dreamed  that  night  they  were  un- 
happy and  that  they  wanted  her.  She  thought  she  heard 
Montague  crying — it  was  the  most  heartrending  sound 
she  had  ever  heard.  She  thought  she  saw  Irene  bending 
over  the  fire  and  stirring  an  empty  saucepan,  and  grop- 
ing on  the  dusty  shelves  of  the  old  cupboard.  She  felt 
there  was  something  unjust  and  terrible  about  this  whilst 
she  was  living  in  hotels  with  everything  she  could  desire. 
The  next  night  she  was  to  play  at  a  place  called 
Epsom,  and  the  following  night  Croydon.  She  knew 
that  they  were  towns  not  far  from  London,  and  that 
Mr.  Pensiver  was  coming  to  Croydon.  She  brooded  over 
this  the  whole  of  the  next  day  and  night,  and  on  the 
day  after  when  they  arrived  at  Croydon  she  felt  she  could 
not  stand  it  any  longer.  During  the  two  days  she  had 
been  smuggling  rolls  and  olives  and  fruit  and  any  small 
portable  food  she  could  lay  her  hands  on  out  of  the  hotel 
and  concealing  it  in  the  small  brown  bag  of  her  own. 
They  arrived  at  Croydon  at  four  o'clock,  and  her  re- 
cital was  to  be  at  eight.  They  passed  the  usual  display 
of  bills  heralding  the  child  marvel,  and  on  one  hoarding 
she  counted  fourteen  full  size  colored  posters  of  her- 
self. It  was  a  dull  day  with  a  fine  driving  rain.  They 
drove  to  a  hotel,  and  ]\Ir.  Du  Casson  went  to  his  room  to 
rest.  Mr.  Pensiver 's  young  man  had  a  good  deal  to  at- 
tend to,  especially  in  view  of  the  visit  of  his  chief.  Olga 
watched  him  go  to  a  quiet  corner  of  the  lounge  with  a 
bundle  of  bills  and  papers  and  sit  down,  and  then  she 
followed  him.  Her  heart  was  beating  very  fast,  but  she 
controlled  herself  with  surprising  success.  She  said 
almost  casually, 


108  OLGA  BAEDEL 

' '  Oh,  Mr.  Leigliton,  could  you  give  me  some  money  like 
you  said  you  would  the  other  day?" 

The  young  man  looked  up. 

''Why,  yes,  Miss  Barjelski;  how  much  do  you  want?" 

This  was  a  difficult  question.  She  wanted  to  ask  for  a 
huge  sum,  two  or  three  pounds  at  least,  enough  to  keep 
Karl  and  Montague  and  Irene  in  comfort  for  months 
and  months.  She  hesitated,  and  to  her  joy  the  young 
man  said, 

"Would  three  pounds  be  any  good?" 

She  could  not  control  the  exclamation  of  delight,  and 
thanked  him  profusely.  Mr.  Leighton  asked  her  to  sign 
a  paper  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  the  sum,  and  then 
buried  his  head  in  the  accounts.  Olga  gripped  the  sov- 
ereigns in  her  hand,  and  went  to  her  room.  She  put  on 
her  Armenian  dress.  She  had  a  very  vague  idea  of  time, 
and  thought  that  as  it  was  only  afternoon  she  would  get 
back  in  time  for  her  concert  in  the  evening.  She  cov- 
ered herself  up  with  a  long  wrapper  and  crept  down- 
stairs. There  were  two  or  three  people  in  the  lounge, 
but  they  did  not  take  any  particular  notice  of  her. 
The  young  man  was  still  bending  over  his  papers.  She 
fixed  her  eyes  on  his  back,  and  then  glided  to  the  door. 
When  she  got  into  the  street  she  ran.  She  asked  a 
policeman  for  the  station.  It  was  only  five  minutes' 
walk.  When  she  got  there  she  had  to  wait  twenty  min- 
utes for  a  train.  She  sat  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  wait- 
ing-room. As  she  w^as  going  out  to  her  train  she  nearly 
ran  into  Mr.  Pensiver  and  JMrs.  Du  Casson.  They  were 
laughing  and  talking,  and  a  porter  was  getting  them  a 
cab.  She  shrank  out  of  sight  and  watched  them  go, 
and  then  she  boarded  her  train.     It  seemed  a  very  long 


"THE  ARMENIAN  FROCK"  100 

journey  to  London  and  she  began  to  think  she  would  not 
get  back  in  time  for  the  concert.  But  to  her  mind  the 
business  she  had  in  hand  seemed  more  urgent. 

When  the  train  drew  up  at  Charing  Cross  it  was  five 
minutes  past  seven.  She  had  begun  to  have  some  experi- 
ence by  this  time  in  traveling  and  she  had  changed  one 
of  the  sovereigns  at  Croydon.  She  boarded  the  right 
bus,  and  then  the  tram.  By  the  time  she  reached  Can- 
ning Town  it  was  nearly  half-past  eight.  It  was  very 
dark,  and  she  began  to  be  frightened  by  her  adventure. 
She  arrived  in  the  Bardels'  street.  There  were  very 
few  children  about — it  was  too  late  for  them — and  she 
looked  at  the  numbers  on  the  dim  doorways.  At  last 
she  found  the  house.  The  door  was  shut.  She  was  dis- 
appointed about  this.  She  would  have  liked  to  have 
crept  up,  and  found  them  all  as  she  saw  them  in  her 
dream,  and  then  to  have  gone  in  and  put  the  sovereigns 
down  on  the  table,  then  have  had  them  fall  upon  her, 
and  kiss  her  and  welcome  her  back  to  them.  However, 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  ring,  and  this  she  did.  She 
rang  and  waited,  but  there  was  no  answer.  She  rang 
again,  and  still  she  could  not  hear  a  sound.  She  felt 
frightened,  and  wondered  whether  they  had  all  gone 
away.  She  tried  a  third  time.  Then  she  thought  she 
heard  some  movement  on  the  stairs.  After  a  time  the 
door  opened.  In  the  dim  light  she  could  see  a  pale  face. 
It  was  Montague's.  He  peered  at  her,  and  said  hoarsely, 
"Who  is  it?  What  is  it?"  and  then  he  came  nearer, 
and  recognized  who  she  was.  He  did  not  seem  tremen- 
dously surprised  to  see  her.  He  seemed  under  the  stress 
of  some  more  terrifying  emotion.  He  was  trembling, 
and  could  hardly  speak.    He  clutched  her  arm  at  last 


110  OLGA  BARDEL 

and  said,  ' '  My  God ! "  He  pulled  her  into  the  doorway, 
and  stepped  past  her,  and  then  he  turned  and  said, ' '  You 
can  go  up,  if  you  like.  I  can't  stand  it.  My  God !  My 
God ! "  He  vanished  into  the  night  and  left  her  there. 
Sick  with  fear,  Olga  groped  for  the  stairs.  What 
could  n  't  Montague  stand  ?  What  was  happening  up- 
stairs? She  clutched  the  handrail  and  the  wall,  which 
seemed  damp.  As  she  reached  the  first  landing  she  heard 
shrieks  coming  from  the  floor  above.  She  dashed  up  and 
forced  her  way  into  the  old  room.  A  paraffin  lamp  on 
the  side  table  revealed  the  figure  of  a  woman  bending 
over  a  bed.  For  a  second  she  thought  the  woman  was 
murdering  some  one  in  the  bed.  She  shrieked  herself 
and  dashed  forward,  when  a  hand  gripped  her  by  the 
shoulders.  She  struggled  to  get  free  and  her  cloak 
slipped  from  her  and  she  stood  there  in  her  scarlet  Ar- 
menian dress  paralyzed  with  fear.  Suddenly  something 
of  the  true  position  of  affairs  began  to  dawn  on  her. 
The  woman  at  the  bed  turned  sharply  for  a  second,  and 
Olga  realized  that  she  was  a  nurse,  the  hand  that  was 
gripping  her  was  the  hand  of  Uncle  Grubhofer,  and  on 
the  bed  lay  her  sister  Irene.  In  the  struggle  the  sover- 
eigns dropped  from  her  hand  to  the  floor  with  a  clatter, 
and  the  nurse  said, ' '  Silence,  child ! "  as  though  she  were 
desecrating  a  temple  with  the  crash  of  jocund  cymbals. 
She  sank  back  to  a  chair  and  watched  her  sister's 
agony.  At  eleven  o'clock  that  night  Irene  gave  birth 
to  a  child.  The  father  was  a  baker  named  Hazel  1,  a 
married  man  with  five  legitimate  children  of  his  o\ati. 
When  the  agony  was  over  and  Irene  had  fallen  into  a 
restless  slumber,  and  the  nurse  had  soothed  the  queru- 
lous   infant,    Uncle    Grubhofer    stooped    and    solemnly 


''THE  ARMENIAN  FROCK"  111 

picked  up  tlie  sovereigns  from  the  floor.  He  looked  at 
tliem  meditatively  as  though  they  held  the  secret  of  the 
world's  most  unforgivahle  sins.  He  held  them  ou  his 
palm,  and  then  looked  at  Olga.  She  dare  not  turn  her 
face  in  his  direction.  She  was  conscious  of  the  paralTiu 
lamp  flickering  and  revealing  Uncle  Grubhofer  in  spas- 
modic glints,  sometimes  he  almost  vanished  altogether 
and  then  he  would  suddenly  loom  up,  holding  the  in- 
criminating evidence  almost  under  her  nose.  She  fancied 
at  moments  that  he  was  smiling  as  though  the  vision  of 
these  two  sisters  exposed  in  their  individual  vileness 
satisfied  some  bizarre  kink  in  his  own  nature.  At  last 
he  frowned,  and  put  the  coins  in  his  pocket  and  went 
slowly  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VII 


"revolt" 


THE  next  day  Uncle  Grubhofer  accompanied  her 
to  Guildford,  and  he  did  not  leave  her  for  the 
rest  of  the  tour.  To  her  surprise,  nothing 
was  said  to  her  about  her  defection.  The  only  difference 
in  the  arrangements  was  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Du  Casson 
returned  to  town  and  Uncle  Grubhofer  took  their  place. 
The  tour  trailed  northwards  again,  and  they  visited 
gaunt  manufacturing  towns.  Uncle  Grubhofer  kept 
close  to  her.  He  engaged  her  room  at  the  hotel  and  oc- 
cupied one  close  by.  During  the  day  he  sat  about  the 
lounge  so  that  he  could  see  her  if  she  attempted  to  go 
out.  He  accompanied  her  to  the  concert  hall,  and  was 
always  in  the  artists'  room  apparently  asleep  when  she 
came  off  the  platform,  and  then  he  took  her  silently  back 
to  the  hotel.  He  sat  for  hours  over  Gargantuan  meals, 
breathing  heavily,  and  reading  a  newspaper,  and  occa- 
sionally glancing  furtively  at  her.  She  had  never  seen 
any  one  eat  quite  like  Uncle  Grubhofer.  He  would  gaze 
at  the  dish  set  before  him  by  the  waiter  for  a  long  time, 
and  then  he  would  push  it  with  his  fork,  and  a  pained 
expression  would  come  over  his  face.  Then  he  would 
call  the  waiter,  and  talk  to  him  about  the  dish  in  a  low 
voice,  and  in  the  majority  of  cases  send  it  back  with  some 

precise  but  cabalistic  instructions.     When  it  was  brought 

112 


"REVOLT"  113 

for  the  second  time  he  would  go  for  it  quickly  as  though 
he  wished  to  catch  it  at  its  most  supreme  moment.  He 
would  fill  his  mouth  with  food  and  hold  his  face  close 
over  his  plate,  with  his  napkin  tucked  into  his  neck,  and 
his  small  eyes  would  roll  suspiciously  round  the  table. 
He  looked  dangerous  at  such  moments.  Sometimes  he 
surprised  her  by  his  attention.  She  would  be  conscious 
that  he  was  gazing  at  her  furtively  with  a  melancholy 
expression  as  though  the  sight  of  her  stirred  some  quick 
but  dubious  memories.  "When  she  looked  up  at  him  he 
turned  away.  He  drank  copiously  but  only  in  propor- 
tion to  his  meal,  and  never  to  excess.  He  would  drink 
a  whole  bottle  of  hock  with  his  dinner,  but  hardly  ever 
touched  spirits. 

Olga  seemed  to  spend  months  sitting  opposite  Uncle 
Grubhofer  and  watching  these  lugubrious  exhibitions, 
and  then  afterwards  would  follow  tedious  train  journeys 
in  smoking  carriages,  and  another  smoky  town  hemmed 
in  by  fantastic  chimneys  and  flares.  The  same  posters, 
the  child-wonder,  the  Armenian  frock,  the  same  concert 
halls,  and  apparently  the  same  people.  They  went 
through  Lancashire,  Yorkshire,  Newcastle,  and  Scotland, 
and  it  was  eight  weeks  before  they  returned  to  town. 
Olga  had  received  no  further  letters  from  Irene  or  Karl 
or  ]\Iontague,  and  whether  they  had  written  and  the  let- 
ters been  intercepted  she  could  not  tell,  but  when  she 
began  to  see  the  gray  outskirts  of  the  big  city  in  the 
early  morning  light,  a  fierce  excitement  seized  her,  and 
various  perverse  resolutions  filled  her  small  heart.  Dur- 
ing all  this  latter  part  of  the  tour  she  had  not  been 
allowed  to  have  any  money,  and  she  had  none  now.  She 
had  been  held  in  a  sort  of  soporific  trance  by  Uncle  Grub- 


114  OLGA  BARDEL 

hofer,  her  volition  paralyzed  by  the  fear  of  him.  But 
the  sense  of  London  gave  her  courage,  she  recognized 
its  various  landmarks  as  the  train  lumbered  through,  and 
the  recognition  inspired  her  with  dim  desires  and  half- 
formed  determinations.  In  London  she  knew  her  way 
about.  It  was  the  city  of  freedom.  At  the  station 
Uncle  Grubhofer  delayed  progress  by  ordering  a  prodi- 
gious breakfast  which  occupied  a  full  hour,  and  then  he 
ordered  a  four-wheel  cab  and  delivered  her  at  the  door 
of  the  Du  Cassons'  house  in  Chessle  Terrace. 

So  this  was  to  be  her  home  again !  She  waited  in  the 
morning-room.  The  Du  Cassons  were  not  yet  up.  She 
heard  all  the  usual  sounds  that  characterized  the  pre- 
breakfast  hour  in  Chessle  Terrace.  The  rushing  of 
water  in  the  bathroom,  the  singing  of  a  maid  in  the 
kitchen  and  of  a  brass  kettle  on  a  tripod  on  the  table, 
and  Mr.  Du  Casson's  voice  shouting  to  his  wife  through 
the  lather  on  his  mouth  and  chin,  and  then  the  banging 
of  a  breakfast  gong  answered  by  the  loud  and  strident 
yapping  of  the  little  dogs  as  they  darted  about  the  hall 
increasing  in  volume  as  they  heard  Mrs.  Du  Casson's 
metallic  voice  on  the  stairs:  "Ah,  my  darlings,  did  'um 
want  'ums  little  breakums  then  1 ' ' 

Mrs.  Du  Casson  kissed  her  effusively,  and  said  she  was 
so  pleased  to  see  her  back,  and  to  know  that  the  tour 
had  been  a  success.  Mr.  Du  Casson  followed,  and  in- 
dulged in  many  antics  of  mock  veneration  and  affection. 
They  tried  to  persuade  her  to  have  some  breakfast  but 
she  refused,  and  sat  there  watching  them  eat  and  play 
with  the  dogs. 

When  they  had  finished  she  followed  Mrs.  Du  Casson 


"REVOLT"  115 

up-stairs  and  said  to  her  abruptly,  *'Mrs.  Du  Casson, 
will  you  give  me  some  money?" 

Mrs.  Du  Casson  started.  "]\Ioney !  my  dear,  whatever 
for?" 

"I  want  some.  I  want  to  go  and  see  my  sister.  She 
has  a  little  baby." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Mrs.  Du  Casson  with  an  expression  of 
relief.  "Why,  of  course,  dear.  But  you  mustn't  for- 
get that  Mr.  Pensiver  has  booked  you  for  the  Royal  Tonic 
Society's  concert  on  Saturday.  You  will  have  to  prac- 
tise, you  know!" 

"Yes,"  said  Olga,  watching  Mrs.  Du  Casson 's  move- 
ments. 

That  lady  went  to  a  drawer  in  her  escritoire,  and 
opened  a  cash  box.  Olga  noticed  that  in  one  section  was 
a  whole  heap  of  sovereigns  and  in  the  other  a  little  silver. 
She  took  half  a  crown  and  gave  it  to  Olga  and  said, 
' '  There,  dear !     Will  you  be  back  to  lunch  ? ' ' 

Olga  was  a  little  disappointed  at  the  amount,  but 
she  said,  "Thank  you.  I  '11  try  and  be  back  to  lunch." 
She  then  went  to  her  room  and  changed  her  frock,  and 
washed  herself.  Within  an  hour  of  entering  the  house 
she  was  out  again  in  the  street.  She  hurried  along  and 
jumped  on  to  a  'bus.  The  day  was  dull  but  fine,  and  she 
enjoyed  the  journey  across  London,  When  she  arrived 
at  her  old  home,  she  rang  the  bell  as  before.  After  wait- 
ing some  time  a  strange  woman  opened  the  door,  and 
stared  at  her. 

* '  What  d '  yer  want  ? ' '  she  said. 

"Oh,"  said  Olga,  trying  to  pass  in,  "I  want  my  sister, 
Miss  Bardel." 


116  OLGA  BAKDEL 

The  woman  looked  at  her  bad-temperedly.  "They 
gorn  awy !     Gorn  awy  months  ago ! ' ' 

* '  Gone  away ! ' '  said  Olga.     ' '  Where  to  ? " 

*'I  don't  know,  'ow  should  I  know?  They  've  gorn 
awy,  I  tell  yer.  Fetchin'  me  down  with  all  yer  silly 
nonsense !  Why  don't  yer  find  aht  before  you  go  callin' 
on  people !"    And  she  banged  the  door  in  Olga's  face. 

Olga's  heart  sank.  She  stared  at  the  door  and 
couldn't  believe  the  story.  She  looked  down  in  the 
basement,  and  observed  that  the  room  that  was  formerly 
Karl's  and  Montague's  bedroom  was  no  longer  occupied. 
And  then  her  eye  wandered  back  to  the  door,  and  she 
observed  that  Uncle  Grubhofer's  magnificent  brass  plate 
was  missing.  She  remembered  that  Irene  had  said  in 
her  letter  that  Uncle  Grubhofer  had  taken  a  shop  in  some 
street.  Then  she  remembered  the  name,  Wallace  Street ! 
She  moved  off,  and  walked  to  the  corner.  She  asked 
a  policeman  if  he  knew  Wallace  Street.  After  mature 
consideration  he  directed  her  to  the  other  end  of  the 
neighborhood.  It  proved  easier  to  find  than  the  police- 
man's directions  had  led  her  to  expect.  It  was  a  fairly 
respectable  street  off  a  main  thoroughfare.  She  walked 
the  length  of  it  and  at  last  recognized  Uncle  Grubhofer's 
brass  plate.  The  plate  glass  window  of  the  shop  was 
painted  brown  up  to  a  certain  height,  and  had  gold  let- 
tering on  it,  identical  with  that  on  the  brass  plate.  There 
was  a  swing  door  and  the  evidences  of  a  moderately 
high-class  business.  She  walked  in  and  a  young  man 
came  forward. 

"Can  I  see  Mr.  Grubhofer?"  she  said. 

"What  name,  miss?"  said  the  young  man. 

"I  'm  his  niece,"  said  Olga. 


"KEVOLT"  117 

The  young  man  went  into  an  inner  room,  and  pres- 
ently Unf'le  Grubhofer  appeared  looking  like  a  ruffled 
elephant.     He  came  out  and  stared  at  her. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said.  It  was  the  most 
aggressive  remark  she  had  ever  made  to  him,  and  he 
looked  at  her  curiously.  Then  he  turned  and  told  the 
young  man  to  go  out  on  some  errand,  and  retired  to  his 
inner  room,  thus  noneomraittingly  ordering  her  to  follow 
him.  When  they  arrived  there,  he  sat  down  and  she 
said : 

"Where  is  Irene?" 

There  was  an  attitude  of  revolt  about  the  child  that 
was  new  to  her. 

Uncle  Grubhofer  took  up  a  piece  of  metal-turning  that 
was  on  his  desk.  He  held  it  up  to  his  eye  and  looked 
along  it,  as  though  to  see  if  it  were  true.  Then  he  put 
it  down  and  rolled  ponderously  on  his  swivel  chair. 
Tears  of  anger  darted  to  the  girl's  eyes,  and  she  rose  at 
him  as  she  had  never  done  before. 

"What  have  you  done  with  Irene  and  the  baby? 
Where  is  Karl  and  Montague?  I  want  some  money; 
you  must  give  me  some  money.     I  want  to  go  to  them." 

Uncle  Grubhofer  said  "Oh!"  in  a  deep  sonorous  voice, 
and  then  he  added  in  a  lighter  but  more  melancholy  key, 
"So  you  want  some  money,  eh?" 

Olga  saw  that  he  meant  if  possible  to  evade  her  ques- 
tion, and  she  rushed  and  struck  the  desk  in  front  of 
him  in  a  blaze  of  fury.  "Where  is  Irene?  ...  if  you 
don't  tell  rae  I  shall  go  and  tell  people  .  .  .  and  then 
I  shall  go  away." 

It  was  a  strange  duel,  the  small  child  like  an  angry 
sparrow  darting  about  the  room,  consumed  with  emo- 


118  OLGA  BARDEL 

tions  she  had  no  power  to  express,  conscious  of  an  out- 
raged sense  of  justice  which  she  could  not  focus;  and 
the  man,  secure  in  his  own  bulk  but  slightly  disturbed 
and  surprised,  revolving  meditatively  the  means  of  ac- 
tion within  the  ambit  of  his  dubious  desires,  using  his 
conscious  power  of  brooding  silence  to  strike  terror  and 
to  gain  time,  hoping  that  from  the  turgid  depths  of  his 
own  being  some  inspiration  might  spring  to  adapt  this 
new  development  to  his  own  ends. 

"You  are  not  fair  to  me.  .  .  .  You  frighten  me  .  ,  . 
but  you  can't  do  this!     You  shan't!  you  shan't!" 

The  storm  reached  a  climax  in  a  fit  of  sobbing,  and 
Uncle  Grubhofer  thought  it  well  to  temporize. 

He  spoke  in  sorrow.  He  said  that  Irene  had  been  ill. 
She  was  away  in  the  country.  If  Olga  did  not  behave 
so  extravagantly  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not 
go  to  see  her  sister.  It  was  very  nice  to  see  sisters  loving 
each  other  so  much!  "With  regard  to  money,  he  had 
none.  She  had  cost  him  a  lot  of  money,  thousands  of 
pounds  which  he  never  expected  to  recover.  If  she 
wanted  money  she  had  better  go  to  ]\Ir.  Pensiver  or  to 
Mrs.  Du  Casson ;  they  had  any  amount. 

"The  people  paid  money  to  come  and  hear  me  play," 
said  Olga  with  sudden  inspiration.     "Who  has  that?" 

Uncle  Grubhofer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  had 
better  ask  dear  Mrs.  Du  Casson  or  Mr.  Pensiver,"  and 
he  laughed  with  a  queer  malignity. 

Olga  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  said,  "I  shall 
ask  them.     And  now  you  must  tell  me  where  Irene  is." 

Uncle  Grubhofer  rose  and  walked  to  a  small  paraffin 
stove  and  held  his  hands  over  it.  He  stood  there  for 
some  time  with  his  back  to  her,  and  then  he  turned  and 


"REVOLT"  119 

looked  at  his  watch.  At  last  he  said  very  deliberately, 
"You  may  meet  me  at — Gower  Street  Station  at  five 
o'clock,  and  then  I  will  take  you  to  see  Irene;  but  it  is 
on  a  condition." 

"What  is  it?"  said  Olga  breathlessly. 

"You  shall  not  say  anything  to  Mrs.  Du  Casson.  You 
shall  not  say  where  you  are  going,  or  that  you  are  to 
meet  me." 

Olga  was  surprised  at  the  simplicity  of  this  condition, 
and  she  agreed.  Uncle  Grubhofer  turned  again  to  the 
paraffin,  stove  and  she  was  struck  by  the  inadequacy  of 
this  tiny  fountain  of  warmth  for  the  overpowering  pro- 
portions of  the  man.  There  seemed  nothing  further  to 
say,  and  she  went  out  of  the  shop  while  his  back  was 
turned. 

She  returned  to  Chessle  Terrace,  surging  with  varied 
emotions.  There  was  a  note  for  her  from  Mr.  Du  Casson 
to  say  that  he  and  his  wife  would  be  out  all  day.  They 
would  be  back  to  dinner  at  7 :30.  He  then  reminded  her 
that  she  had  to  play  at  the  Royal  Tonic  Society's  concert 
on  Saturday,  and  she  had  better  start  practising.  But 
Olga  did  not  practise  that  afternoon.  She  felt  too  per- 
turbed by  her  experience  of  the  morning,  and  too  excited 
by  the  prospect  of  adventure  for  the  evening.  She  lay 
on  her  bed  revolving  many  thoughts,  and  watching  the 
clock.  Would  Irene  be  glad  to  see  her  ?  She  wondered 
what  the  baby  would  be  like,  and  where  Karl  and  ^lon- 
tague  were.  Would  they  be  angry  that  she  had  not  sent 
them  the  money?  How  lovely  it  would  be  if  she  could 
take  them  some  now — lots  of  money  and  good  things. 
Then  she  suddenly  remembered  that  she  had  not  even 
any  money  for  her  fare.     Supposing  Uncle  Grubhofer 


120  OLGA  BARDEL 

refused  to  buy  her  ticket,  or  still  contended  that  he 
hadn't  any.  She  remembered  what  he  had  said,  "You 
had  better  ask  dear  Mrs.  Du  Casson.  She  has  any 
amount. ' '  Of  course  Mrs.  Du  Casson  had ;  she  kept  lots 
in  her  escritoire  in  her  boudoir.  It  suddenly  occurred 
to  her  that  she  would  see  if  it  were  open,  and  if  so,  she 
would  take  a  little,  just  enough  to  pay  her  fare,  and 
perhaps  a  few  shillings  for  Irene. 

It  was  getting  late  and  she  would  have  to  start  soon. 
She  washed  herself  and  brushed  her  hair.  She  wanted 
to  look  nice.  Then  she  put  on  her  hat  and  coat  and  went 
quietly  down  to  Mrs.  Du  Casson 's  boudoir.  She  felt 
rather  frightened,  for  she  knew  that  this  was  tampering 
with  property.  And  her  moral  teaching  had  instilled 
the  fact  into  her  that  if  you  are  discovered  tampering 
with  property  you  are  very  severely  punished.  But  this 
was  essentially  a  day  of  revolt.  She  crept  into  the  room. 
It  smelt  strongly  with  the  scent  she  always  associated 
with  the  Du  Cassons.  It  was  a  very  pretty  room,  all 
pink  and  with  shiny  yellowish  furniture.  She  went 
to  the  escritoire,  and  to  her  relief  saw  that  there  was  a 
small  bunch  of  keys  on  a  ring,  and  one  of  them  was  in 
the  lock.  Mrs.  Du  Casson  had  evidently  gone  off  and  for- 
gotten them !  She  opened  the  escritoire  and  found  the 
cash  box,  but  it  was  locked.  She  tried  all  the  keys  on 
the  ring,  but  none  of  them  fitted.  She  looked  in  all 
the  drawers,  and  at  last  found  a  small  key  in  a  nib  box. 
To  her  delight  it  was  the  right  one.  She  opened  the 
cash  box.  There  was  all  the  money,  as  she  had  seen  it 
that  morning.  She  grabbed  four  shillings  and  then  her 
eye  lighted  on  the  pile  of  gold. 

In  a  flash  the  thought  came  to  her  of  her  demand  of 


"REVOLT"  121 

Uncle  Grubbofer:  "Tbe  people  paid  money  to  come  and 
bear  me  play.  Who  was  it?"  and  tben  sbe  remembered 
bis  significant  grin,  "You  bad  better  ask  Mrs.  Du  Cas- 
son?"  Good  Heavens !  tbis  was  it !  Sbe  bad  a  moment 
of  poignant  revelation.  Sbe  knew  wby  tbese  people  were 
so  kind  to  ber.  Tbey  took  tbe  money  wbicb  rightfully 
belonged  to  ber.  It  must  belong  to  ber.  Sbe  played 
alone  at  tbe  concerts,  there  was  no  other  attraction — 
people  came  in  their  hundreds  and  paid  money  to  hear 
her.  Sbe  rolled  the  sovereigns  over  in  her  hand.  She 
thought  of  Karl  and  Montague  and  Irene,  and  the  baby 
perhaps  without  proper  food.  And  sbe  had  sent  them 
nothing,  had  nothing,  and  here  was  all  the  money  that 
sbe  rightfully  should  be  allowed  to  give  them  lying  in 
this  box.  She  counted  it  out  on  tbe  green  baize  top  of 
tbe  desk,  ber  ears  alert  for  any  disturbance  from  below. 
There  were  nine  sovereigns  and  five  half  sovereigns. 
It  was  a  fortune !  Sbe  would  go  away  and  take  Irene 
and  tbe  others  to  somewhere  in  tbe  country,  and  never 
come  back.  She  put  the  coins  stealthily  in  a  handker- 
chief and  tucked  them  away  in  her  small  reticule.  Then 
she  closed  tbe  desk  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

When  sbe  met  Uncle  Grubbofer  at  Gower  Street  she 
was  quite  calm. 

He  said,  "You  have  not  spoken?"  and  she  shook  her 
head. 

They  took  a  train  to  Waterloo,  where  be  bought  two 
more  tickets.  It  was  dark  by  this  time  and  they  boarded 
a  slow  train  and  sat  in  tbe  corner  of  a  smoking- 
carriage  witliout  speaking.  The  train  stopped  at  all  the 
stations  and  people  passed  in  and  out  like  phantoms. 
They  trundled  through  tbe  country  for  about  an  hour 


122  OLGA  BARDEU 

till  the  train  arrived  at  a  station  at  which  porters  were 
declaiming  a  title  that  sounded  something  like  "Larr- 
sham!"  Uncle  Grubhofer  peered  out  of  the  window, 
and  then  got  out,  Olga  following  him.  The  station 
seemed  bleak  and  deserted,  but  outside  were  two  cabs  of 
a  sort.  Uncle  Grubhofer  motioned  to  her  to  get  into 
one  of  them,  and  then  he  gave  some  directions  to  the 
driver.  They  rattled  off  into  the  dark  country,  and 
passed  through  a  village.  About  a  mile  further  on  they 
pulled  up,  and  Uncle  Grubhofer  told  the  driver  to  wait. 
They  got  out  and  clambered  over  a  stile,  and  crossed  a 
field.  In  a  hollow  on  the  other  side  a  dimly  lit  cottage 
was  discernible.  Uncle  Grubhofer  led  his  charge  to- 
wards it.  He  listened  for  a  minute  or  two  outside  the 
gate,  and  then  went  through  and  tapped  on  the  door. 
They  heard  some  one  moving  inside,  and  then  the  bolt 
was  slipped  back  and  the  door  opened  an  inch  or  two, 
and  Irene's  voice  said:  "Who  is  it?" 

Uncle  Grubhofer  said,  "It  's  me.     Let  me  in  quickly," 
and  he  pushed  his  way  into  the  passage. 

' '  Who  is  this  ? ' '  said  Irene,  peering  at  Olga ;  then  sud- 
denly recognizing  her  she  said,  "Oh,  Christ!" 

They  trooped  into  the  room  where  the  lamp  was  burn- 
ing, and  a  few  dull  cinders  lay  shivering  in  a  small 
grate.     Uncle  Grubhofer  did  not  remove  his  hat.     He 
went  to  the  fireplace  and  placed  one  of  his  feet  on  the 
bars  of  the  grate.     Olga  wanted  to  greet  Irene  in  some  { 
way,  but  the  impulse  of  affection  seemed  atrophied  in ! 
her.     She  felt  tense  and  strained,  and  was  conscious  that ; 
the  silence  was  oppressing  her  and  Irene  in  different 
ways.     Neitlier  of  the  girls  moved  or  looked  at  each 
other.     They  were  staring  at  Uncle  Grubhofer 's  back. 


"REVOLT"  123 

At  last  the  silence  snapped  in  the  chilling  percussion 
of  his  voice. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  "are  you  alone  here?  Quite 
alone — still  1  None  of  the  tradespeople  here,  eh  V  not  the 
butcher,  or  the  milkman  ?  or  even — the  baker  ? ' ' 

Olga  noticed  the  top  of  his  head  moving  as  though 
he  were  shaking  with  the  vibrations  of  some  fountain 
of  secret  enjoyment.  Irene  did  not  answer.  She 
shrunk  against  the  wall,  and  he  continued : 

"So!  Your  dear  little  sister  has  come  to  see  you. 
She  wants  to  stop  with  you — she  loves  you  so !  You  see 
— you  have  so  much  in  common — thieving  and  harlo- 
try!" he  chuckled  to  himself.  "She  wants  to  have  a 
nice  loving  chat.  She  will  like  to  hear  all  about  Karl. 
You  can't  tell  her  much  about  IMoutague,  can  you?  and 
then — who  else  is  there?  Who  else?  How  sad  that 
Nathan  didn't  have  more  children!  robbing  the  prisons 
and  brothels  of  their  hard-earned  fodder,  eh  ?  You  can 
put  her  up,  can't  you?  I  expect  she  has  money.  Look 
in  that  little  black  bag  she  carries.  I  expect  she  's 
brought  you  something.  You  see  she  lives  among  rich 
people.  She  's  used  to  having  everything.  And  when 
they  don't  give  it  to  her  she  takes  it.  Oh,  yes,  don't 
worry.  She  's  a  Bardel  all  right.  She  's  one  of 
Nathan's  children — the  apple  of  his  eye!  I  remember 
he  devoted  special  care  to  this  one.  ..."  At  that  he 
turned  and  looked  sharply  at  Olga,  and  at  her  small 
black  bag.  Her  hand  trembled,  and  she  knew  that  if 
he  chose  to  snatch  it  from  her,  she  would  not  have  the 
power  to  resist.  It  was  horrible,  the  way  he  rambled 
on  about  her  father.  She  felt  at  one  moment  that  .she 
would  be  glad  to  throw  the  bag  to  him,  if  only  he  would 


124  OLGA  BARDEL 

leave  them,  but  the  desultory  flow  of  anathema  pursued 
the  even  tenor  of  its  course.  Much  of  it  was  incompre- 
hensible to  Olga,  and  he  referred  to  names  and  incidents 
that  conveyed  nothing  to  her;  the  terrifying  conviction 
came  home  to  her  that  he  was  glad  that  she  and  Irene 
and  the  others  were  vile.  He  knew  it  and  wanted  them 
to  be  and  rejoiced  in  his  power  to  gloat  over  them.  She 
tried  to  reason  this  out  but  she  could  not.  It  was  hor- 
rible. The  next  time  he  mentioned  her  father,  she  sud- 
denly cried  out : 

''Don't!  Don't!  I  won't  stand  it!  You  shan't  say 
these  things  of  my  father ! ' ' 

And  then  he  did  a  most  surprising  thing.  He  looked 
quickly  at  Olga  and  then  suddenly  started  as  though  he 
had  been  struck  with  a  whip.  He  gave  a  sort  of 
whimper.  She  really  thought  for  the  moment  that  he 
was  going  to  cry.  He  fumbled  with  the  lapels  of  his 
coat,  and  the  expression  of  jeering  satisfaction  gave  way 
to  one  of  dejection.  He  took  off  his  soft  hat  and  crum- 
pled it  in  his  hand  and  then  put  it  back  on  his  head. 
He  kicked  the  grate  peevishly  and  then  walked  to  the 
door.  There  he  stopped  as  though  about  to  continue  his 
diatribe  but  changed  his  mind.  He  gazed  at  Olga  with 
an  expression  of  melancholy  anguish  and  then  gave  a 
snigger  that  carried  no  conviction  of  mirth,  and  walked 
right  out  of  the  cottage. 

The  gate  snapped,  and  they  heard  the  heavy  thud  of 
his  footsteps  on  the  field  path.  The  sisters  stood  there 
in  silence,  each  listening  to  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 
across  the  field,  almost  unconscious  of  each  other.  Min- 
utes passed  and  then  they  heard  the  crack  of  a  whip, 
and  the  crunching  of  wheels  on  the  road.     They  hardly 


''KEVOLT"  125 

breathed  till  they  heard  the  wheels  die  away  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  then  they  turned  and  looked  at  each  other 
simultaneously.  It  was  a  strange  encounter;  for  the 
first  time  in  their  lives  they  seemed  to  be  looking  at  each 
other  as  equals.  Olga  had  become  taller  and  had  ac- 
quired elements  of  assurance.  She  carried  herself  well ; 
Irene  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  sat  by  the 
table  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  cried.  Olga 
went  to  her  and  kissed  the  top  of  her  head  and  said, 
breathing  rapidly,  "Don't  cry." 

But  Irene  enjoyed  her  cry — she  was  quite  unstrung. 
It  was  some  minutes  before  she  could  speak.  Then  she 
said: 

"Why  did  you  come?" 

Olga  was  dreading  this  question,  particularly  as  she 
knew  she  had  no  answer  ready  that  Irene  would  under- 
stand. At  last  she  said,  "I  wanted  to  come.  I  wanted 
to  see — the  baby." 

A  drawn  expression  came  over  Irene's  face,  but  she 
answered  in  a  low  voice,  "You  shouldn't  have  done 
that.     The  baby  's  dead.     He  died  two  months  ago." 

"Oh,  dear,  I  'm  sorry.  I  'm  so  sorry,"  Olga  tried 
to  say,  but  her  words  were  lost  in  the  renewed  sobbing 
that  shook  Irene.     At  last  she  said : 

"Oh,  it  don't  matter.  It  was  lovely  having  him.  I 
didn't  know — what  anything  was  till  he  came  .  .  .  and 
went." 

This  seemed  a  most  surprising  statement  to  Olga. 
"It  was  lovely  having  him" —  What  did  she  mean? 
Would  she  rather  have  had  him  and  lost  him  ?  Be  was 
a  boy  then.  What  he  had  brought  to  her  had  been 
dashed  away!     But  no,  not  quite.     What  was  it  about 


126  OLGA  BAEDEU 

Irene?  Olga  recognized  that  her  sister  had  some 
quality— she  could  not  define  it.  Something  that  came 
out  to  meet  one,  she  had  never  had  it  before.  She 
could  not  have  cried  like  this.  "I  didn't  know  what 
anything  was  till  he  came — and  went. ' '  It  was  the  most 
tremendous  statement  Irene  had  ever  made  to  her.  It 
was  the  first  time  in  her  life  a  message  had  come  direct 
from  some  other  heart  to  hers,  as  though  valuing  its  in- 
timacy. She  did  not  speak,  but  she  felt  glad  that  she 
had  come.  At  last  Irene  looked  up  and  said,  "What 
was  that  he  said  about  you?  Have  you  brought  me 
something?" 

Olga  nodded  and  opened  her  bag.  She  untied  the 
handkerchief,  and  put  the  pile  of  gold  on  the  table. 
Irene  started  and  trembled.  She  ran  to  the  window  and 
pulled  the  curtains  closer,  and  stood  listening  as  though 
she  expected  to  hear  the  footsteps  of  Uncle  Grubhofer 
returning.  Then  she  came  breathlessly  to  the  table,  her 
eyes  glistening. 

"My  God!"  she  kept  repeating.  At  last  she  said  in 
a  whisper,  "Where  did  you  get  this?  Did  you 
pinch  it?" 

"It's  mine,"  answered  Olga  simply;  "the  people 
paid  to  hear  me  play." 

Irene  stared  at  her  su«piciously,  and  she  stroked  the 
coins  and  sniffed. 

'  *  Did  they  give  it  to  yer  ? ' '  she  asked  suddenly. 

"No,"  said  Olga  placidly,  "I  took  it.  It  's  mine. 
They  paid  this  to  hear  me  play." 

"My  God!"  whispered  Irene,  and  she  went  on  tiptoe 
to   the   window   again.     She   seemed    afraid   to   return. 


"REVOLT"  127 

She  stood  there  and  said  in  a  husky  voice,  "I  thought 
so!  I  thought  so!  It's  no  good.  AVe 're  all  alike! 
The  old  dovil  's  right.     Did  you  hriiig  it  for  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Olga,  ''but  I  would  like  Montague  to 
have  some  and  Karl." 

**  'Ave n't  you  'eard  then?"  said  Irene  "without  mov- 
ing. ''Karl  's  in  quod  again — forging  this  time — got 
eighteen  mouths.  ]\Iontague  's  gone  off — America,  I 
think,  or  Australia — some  foreign  parts.  You  brought 
it  for  me,  eh?" 

Her  eyes  transfixed  the  coins  greedily.  She  seemed 
drawn  between  two  fears.  At  last  she  came  to  the  table 
and  counted  them. 

"Eleven  pounds  ten!"  she  said  meditatively  as  though 
trying  to  visualize  the  potentialities  of  such  a  sura.  At 
last  she  said,  "Where  did  you  get  this  from?" 

"Mrs.  Du  Casson  had  it,"  said  Olga.  "I  took  it 
while  she  was  out." 

Irene  stared  at  her  sister  and  trembled.  She  noticed 
her  small  square  chin  and  the  curious  placid  determina- 
tion written  on  her  brow.  She  looked  different  from 
Karl  when  he  had  pinched  things.  She  felt  frightened 
of  her,  even  as  she  had  felt  frightened  on  that  day  when 
Olga  persisted  in  playing  with  Uncle  Grubhofer's  "prop- 
erty." 

"Did  you  know  what  this  means?"  she  said  quickly. 
"It  means  that  if  they  cop  you  they  will  put  you  in  quod 
like  Karl!" 

"It's  mine,"  said  Olga  doggedly;  "the  people  paid 
to  hear  me  play." 

"You  'd  'ave  to  prove  it.     Oh,  my  God!" 


128  OLGA  BARDEL 

The  sisters  sat  there  arguing  about  the  first  princi- 
ples of  economics  and  justice  in  a  scratchy,  elementary 
way,  but  they  could  make  no  progress.  Olga  could  not 
persuade  Irene  that  the  money  rightfully  belonged  to 
her.  And  Irene  could  not  convince  Olga  that  she  had 
done  a  criminal  act. 

Olga  lay  on  the  couch  in  the  sitting-room  that  night. 
In  the  middle  of  the  night  Irene  came  down  and  she 
found  that  Olga  was  awake. 

*'It  's  no  good,"  she  said;  "you  '11  have  to  go  away. 
I  've  been  thinking  about  it.  Uncle  Grubhofer  will 
come  in  the  morning  with  policemen  and  all  that,  and  I 
can't  stand  it.  I  've  been  ill.  I  was  in  the  'orspital, 
you  know — the  baby  died  there.  They  said  I  was  to  go 
to  a  'ome,  or  I  'd  go  off  my  nut.  And  then  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer sent  me  down  'ere.  He  had  this  cottage,  it  seemed. 
I  believe  he  thinks  I  '11  go  off  my  nut  anyway.  I  be- 
lieve he  wants  me  to.  He  comes  sometimes  like  he  did 
last  night.  Stops  ten  minutes  and  looks  at  me  as  though 
I  was  some  animal.  I  'm  allowed  to  order  five  bobs' 
worth  of  food  a  week  from  the  shop  'ere,  and  I  can  take 
things  out  of  the  garden.  Any  shock  will  send  me  off 
my  nut,  the  doctor  said,  and  if  the  policemen  come  in 
the  morning —     Oh,  my  God!  ..." 

Olga  sat  up  and  rubbed  her  brow.  "Yes,  yes,"  she 
said,  "I  '11  go.     I  '11  go  at  once." 

Then  Irene  cried  and  kissed  Olga.  "You  didn't 
ought  to  have  done  it — to  have  stolen  the  money — I 
somehow  thought  you  'd  be  the  only  one.  ...  I  'm 
glad  you  come  though.  ..." 

The  sisters  lay  in  each  other's  arms  in  a  sort  of  in- 
timacy for  the  first  time  in  their  lives. 


"REVOLT"  129 

When  a  pale  light  began  to  filter  through  the  blind, 
Olga  rose  and  bathed  her  face. 

She  accepted  one  of  the  half  sovereigns  to  pay  her  ex- 
penses to  London,  and  leaving  the  rest  with  Irene,  she 
started  out  across  the  fields. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


"the  board  meeting" 


IT  would  be  idle  to  pretend  that  the  syndicate  had  at 
any  time  been  a  united  body.  The  Du  Cassons  and 
Mr.  Pensiver  distrusted  and  disliked  each  other,  but 
in  any  case  they  understood  each  other.  They  were  of 
the  same  class,  and  had  the  same  standard  of  ethical 
values.  But  Uncle  Grubhofer  introduced  an  alien  and 
in  every  way  objectionable  element  into  their  councils. 
Of  course  they  were  bound  to  have  him  as  he  had  con- 
trol of  the  child,  but  they  were  always  ashamed  of  being 
seen  with  him,  and  they  were  also  a  little  afraid  of  him. 
This  fear  became  accentuated  when  Uncle  Grubhofer 
began  to  show  open  discontent  with  the  financial  results 
of  the  scheme,  and  to  demonstrate  to  ]\Ir.  Pensiver  that 
he  distrusted  the  statements  in  his  books.  He  had  har- 
bored a  grudge  against  Mr.  Pensiver  from  their  very 
first  interview,  because  he  knew  that  Mr.  Pensiver  had 
taken  advantage  of  his  lack  of  knowledge  of  business  as 
conducted  in  the  musical  profession.  But  Uncle  Grub- 
hofer was  beginning  to  understand  the  ropes  a  little 
himself,  and  was  resenting  the  large  profits  that  might 
ultimately  go  into  the  pockets  of  his  fellow  directors. 
The  tour  had  been  a  fair  success,  making  net  profit  of 
over  eight  hundred  pounds,  and  out  of  his  share  of  it 

130 


''THE  BOARD  MEETING"  131 

Uncle  Grubhofer  tried  to  buy  out  Mr.  Bauseh  and  the 
other  members  of  his  own  syndicate,  but  these  gentlemen 
— with  the  exception  of  Karl  who  was  in  prison,  and  one 
of  the  men  who  had  invested  thirty  pounds — having 
heard  of  the  fame  and  reputation  of  Olga  Barjelski, 
stood  out  for  a  larger  sum  than  Uncle  Grubhofer  was 
disposed  to  pay. 

On  the  night  when  Olga  paid  her  visit  to  Irene,  the 
Du  Cassons  had  invited  Mr.  Pensiver  to  dinner  wdth  the 
idea  of  having  a  little  business  chat,  the  prime  motive 
of  this  being  a  desire  on  the  part  of  the  Du  Cassons  to 
buy  Uncle  Grubhofer  out.  The  Du  Cassons  had  social 
as  well  as  commercial  aims,  and  they  were  tired  of  "ex- 
plaining" Uncle  Grubhofer  to  their  many  friends,  and 
they  were  particularly  tired  of  the  unsavory  parasites 
who  were  always  in  his  train,  and  were  apt  to  be  ob- 
jectionable and  not  always  particularly  sober.  For 
the  coming  year  Mr,  Pensiver  had  booked  a  lot  of  good 
engagements  for  Olga  and  they  were  to  be  of  a  more 
paying  nature.  That  fact  of  course  would  have  to  be 
suppressed,  or  in  any  case  considerably  modified  when 
discussing  terms.  It  would  have  to  be  suggested  that 
musical  business  was  at  a  deadlock,  but  that  out  of  the 
kindness  of  their  hearts  the  Du  Cassons  would  look  after 
Olga  for  the  rest  of  the  time  and  would  give  INIr.  Grub- 
hofer— say  a  hundred  pounds  to  relinquish  any  further 
claim  on  the  syndicate.  They  arrived  home  at  seven 
o'clock  and  hurried  up  to  their  rooms  to  dress  for  din- 
ner. As  the  maid  was  spreading  out  Mrs.  Du  Cas- 
son's  frock,  that  lady  remarked, 

"By  the  way,  Laura,  where  is  Miss  Olga?  has  she 
been  practising?" 


132  OLGA  BARDEL 

**I  haven't  heard  her,  madame,"  replied  the  maid. 
"I  don't  think  she  has." 

"  Oh ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Du  Casson  petulantly.  ' '  Just 
go  and  tell  her  to  come  and  speak  to  me,  Laura." 

Laura  retired,  but  returned  in  a  few  minutes  to  say 
she  wasn't  in  her  room.  They  called  all  over  the  house 
but  there  was  no  answer.  Mrs.  Du  Casson  was  angry. 
She  called  to  her  husband. 

' '  Louis,  what  's  happened  to  Olga  ?  She  's  not  in 
the  house!" 

Mr.  Du  Casson  came  in  in  his  shirt  sleeves. 

"Eh?"  he  said,  "not  in?  Oh,  I  expect  she  's  some- 
where about.    Where  is  she,  Laura?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  I  haven't  seen  her  since — lunch 
time." 

"Well,  that  's  a  nice  thing,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Du  Cas- 
son, sitting  on  the  bed.  "I  told  her  she  was  to  prac- 
tise. She  's  got  to  play  the  Grieg  concerto  on  Satur- 
day. She  ought  to  have  practised  all  the  afternoon. 
I  don't  believe  she  knows  the  slow  movement  at  all.  I 
wonder  whether  we  'd  better —  What  is  it?  What  's 
the  matter,  Eva?" 

These  latter  queries  were  addressed  to  Mrs.  Du  Cas- 
son, who  had  suddenly  started  in  the  middle  of  her 
dressing  and  rushed  to  her  escritoire.  She  made  violent 
movements  of  opening  and  shutting  drawers  and  then 
shrieked  and  burst  into  tears. 

"What  is  it?  what  's  up?"  ejaculated  her  husband. 

"Do  you  know  what  it  is?"  screamed  Mrs.  Du  Cas- 
son.   * '  The  little  devil  's  stolen  my  money  and  bolted ! ' ' 

"What!"  gasped  the  world  famous  professor. 
'I  tell  you  she  's  bolted!"  cried  the  lady  hysterically. 


(<' 


"THE  BOARD  MEETING"  133 

"You  fool !  you  might  have  known  what  would  happen, 
having  slum  children  in  the  house !  She  's  just  stolen 
everything  and  gone.  I  knew  something  like  that  would 
happen !  After  all  I  've  done  for  her !  I  Ve  been  like 
a  mother,  I  've  given  her  everything  she  wanted ! 
Everything!  and  then  she  turns  on  me  like  this!" 
Poor  IMrs.  Du  Casson  broke  down,  and  her  husband 
tried  to  soothe  her. 

"But,  I  say,  you  know,  Eva,  we  don't  know.  Per- 
haps there  is  some  mistake.  She  wouldn't — why,  it 
wouldn't  be  worth  it,  it  's  ridiculous!  How  much  had 
you?" 

"Eleven  pounds  in  gold,  and  some  silver,"  sobbed 
]Vrrs.  Du  Casson ;  "  of  course  she  's  taken  it.  She  asked 
me  for  money  this  morning.  She  watched  me  taking  it 
out  of  here.  I  noticed  her  greedy,  cunning  look  at  the 
time,  as  though  I  hadn't  given  her  enough!  They  're 
all  criminals,  all  the  family — I  've  heard  about  them — 
one  of  the  brothers  is  in  prison  now  for  stealing.  And 
I  expect  that  horrible  uncle  is  in  it.  He  's  probably 
put  her  up  to  it.     Oh,  it  's  awful!" 

IMr.  Du  Casson  was  incredulous.  He  poked  about  in 
the  escritoire  and  asked  a  series  of  pointless  questions. 
He  went  up-stairs  to  Olga's  room  and  routed  amongst 
her  things. 

"She  can't  have  bolted,"  he  shouted  down,  "she's 
left  some  of  her  clothes  and  so  on." 

In  the  midst  of  this  confusion  the  bell  rang  and  Mr. 
Pensiver  was  announced.  Olga's  patron  and  patroness 
hurriedly  finished  their  dressing  and  went  do\\Ti  to  him. 
Mr.  Pensiver  took  the  news  magnificently,  as  became  a 
person  who  gambled  in  big  things.     He  listened  atten- 


134  OLGA  BAEDEL 

tively  to  all  they  had  to  say,  and  then  started  immedi- 
ately to  consider  the  wisest  course  to  pursue.  Dinner 
was  announced  before  he  had  time  to  formulate  any 
plan  and  the  three  of  them  adjourned  to  the  dining- 
room.  Two  maids  waited  at  table,  so  that  tht  discus- 
sion was  deferred  till  the  dessert  stage.  In  spite  of  their 
misgivings  and  Mrs.  Du  Casson's  broken,  maternal 
heart,  they  all  managed  to  negotiate  a  very  excellent 
dinner.  When  the  maids  had  retired  and  a  bottle  of 
Benedictine  had  been  passed  round  and  the  men  had 
lighted  their  cigars,  Mrs.  Du  Casson  said, 

"Well  now — what  are  we  to  do?" 

''Do  you  think  there  might  have  been  a  street  acci- 
dent?" said  Mr.  Du  Casson  suddenly.  "You  know 
she  's  rather  an — er,  abstracted  child.  Taxis  coming 
round  the  corner  and  so  on."  He  illustrated  the  line 
of  his  pessimistic  foreboding  by  a  sweep  of  a  dessert 
knife,  but  neither  of  the  others  evinced  a  serious  inter- 
est in  this  theory. 

Mrs.  Du  Casson  said,  "Do  you  think  the  man  Grub- 
hofer  is  at  the  back  of  this,  Sir.  Pensiver?" 

Pensiver  held  his  Benedictine  up  to  the  light  and 
said, 

''We  must  be  prepared  for  this,  dear  lady.  But  there 
is  one  point  I  want  to  make  quite  clear.  Nothing  must 
be  said  about  this  money  that  she  has — that  has  disap- 
peared. You  will  understand — there  are  considerable 
sums  at  stake  during  the  next  few  years — so  we  will 
write  this  amount  off — how  much  did  you  say  it  was — 
ten  pounds?  We  will  consider  it  one  of  the  aberrations 
of  genius,"  and  Mr.  Pensiver  laughed  pleasantly. 
"Good   heavens!     I  've   known   nearly  every  artist   in 


"THE  BOARD  MEETING"  135 

Europe  personally  and  intimately.  I  don't  think 
there  's  one  who  hasn't  got  some  wayward  kink  in  his 
or  her  composition.  ]\Iany  of  them  are  criminals.  We 
make  allowances  for  them."  ]\Ir.  Pensiver  tossed  the 
contents  of  the  small  glass  of  yellow  liquid  into  his 
mouth  as  though  the  aggravating  stuff  had  tantalized 
him  long  enough  and  then  continued,  "So  if  this  young 
lady  shows  a  certain — light-fingered  proclivity,  the  only 
thing  for  us  to  do  is  to — er — keep  temptation  out  of  her 
way  and  protect  her."  He  smiled  expansively,  and  Mrs, 
Du  Casson  nodded  and  said, 

"Yes.  You  're  right,  of  course.  You  're  quite  right, 
Mr.  Pensiver,  but  you  can't  think  how  upset  and  dis- 
appointed I  am.  I  had  looked  upon  her  almost  as  my 
own  child.  It  seems  so  horrible!  Stealing!  There's 
something  so — unclean  about  it."  And  the  good  lady 
selected  a  salted  almond  from  a  silver  jardiniere  and 
crunched  it  despondingly  between  her  teeth. 

"Please  accept  my  sincere  sympathy,"  said  Mr.  Pen- 
siver earnestly.  "It  must  be  indeed  terrible  for  you. 
Now  what  I  think  is  this.  I  do  not  believe  that  Grub- 
hofer  is  at  the  back  of  this.  I  think  the  eleven  pounds 
settles  that.  He  would  not  have  encouraged  her  to 
steal  eleven  pounds  when  he  has  so  much  more  at  stake. 
It  would  be  ridiculous,  and  Grubhofer  is  no  fool.  I  'm 
inclined  to  think  the  child  has  gone  off  on  some  way- 
ward business  of  her  own,  to  visit  some  of  these  choice 
members  of  her  family  perhaps.  I  hope  this  may  be 
so.  In  that  case  Grubhofer  is  the  only  person  who  will 
be  able  to  get  in  touch  with  her.  In  any  case  I  think 
no  time  should  be  lost  in  getting  in  touch  with  him. 
We  shall  in  any  case  know  the  worst. ' ' 


136  OLGA  BARDEL 

"He  's  not  on  the  telephone,"  ventured  Mr.  Du  Cas- 
son. 

"No,  and  I  don't  think  that  would  be  the  best  way  to 
approach  him  either, ' '  said  the  impresario. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  said  Mrs.  Du  Casson. 

"I  think  one  of  us  ought  to  go  in  a  ear  over  to  his 
place  in  Canning  Town.  If  there  is  no  sign  of  the  girl 
there,  we  should  persuade  him  to  come  back  there,  to 
hold  a  meeting,  as  the  matter  is  urgent.  I  should  say- 
nothing  to  him  about  the  stolen  money." 

"Good!"  said  Mr.  Du  Casson.  "That's  right  and 
you  're  the  one  to  go ! " 

"I  bow  to  the  decision  of  the  majority,"  said  Mr. 
Pensiver  magnanimously  as  Mrs.  Du  Casson  nodded  an 
agreement  with  her  husband.  Within  twenty  minutes 
the  impresario's  cab  was  at  the  door,  and  the  great  man, 
with  his  half-smoked  cigar  rolling  between  his  teeth, 
stepped  across  the  pavement  and  gave  the  driver  in- 
structions in  an  apologetic  voice  as  to  how  to  approach 
the  mephitic  neighborhood  of  Canning  Town.  It 
took  the  cab  rather  less  than  half  an  hour  to  arrive 
at  Uncle  Grubhofer's  shop.  Mr.  Pensiver  got  out  and 
walked  quickly  up  to  the  door  and  rang  a  bell.  Every- 
thing was  in  darkness,  but  presently  Mr.  Pensiver 
thought  he  heard  a  window  open.  He  looked  up.  A 
shadowy  head  was  peering  at  him. 

"Ah!"  called  Mr,  Pensiver  in  a  loud  and  genial 
voice.     "Is  that  you,  Mr.  Grubhofer?" 

"Who  is  it?"  said  the  face. 

"I  'm  John  Pensiver.  May  I  speak  to  you  for  a  mo- 
ment, Mr.  Grubhofer?" 

The  window  shut  deliberately  and  there  was  a  long 


"THE  BOARD  MEETING"  137 

interval.  At  last  a  bolt  creaked  behiud  the  door,  and 
Uncle  Grubhofer  appeared  in  a  dressing  gown,  holding  a 
lamp.  ''Come  in,"  he  said.  Mr.  Pensiver  followed  him 
into  the  shop. 

"Your  niece  has  disappeared  from  Mrs.  Du  Cas- 
son's,"  he  said,  and  he  looked  Uncle  Grubhofer  very 
searchingly  in  the  eye. 

Uncle  Grubhofer  started  and  blinked.  "She  has  dis- 
appeared?" he  repeated. 

"It  is  very  urgent,"  continued  Mr.  Pensiver.  "We 
presume  you  know  nothing  of  her  whereabouts?" 

Uncle  Grubhofer  seemed  dumbfounded.  "What  do 
you  mean?"  he  said.  "She  's  disappeared!  When  did 
she  disappear?     I  took  her  there  this  morning!" 

"She  went  out  this  afternoon  and  has  not  returned. 
She  is  engaged  to  play  at  the  Royal  Tonic  Society's 
concert  on  Saturday  at  a  good  fee.  She  should  be  prac- 
tising.    It  is  a  serious  thing ! ' ' 

"Dear,  dear!"  said  Uncle  Grubhofer;  "this  is  awful !" 

"As  I  see  you  know  nothing  about  her  whereabouts — 
we  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  you  would  come 
back  with  me  to  the  Du  Cassons '  so  that  we  may  discuss 
the  best  thing  to  do.     I  have  my  car  here." 

"Oh,  dear!  I  do  hope  there  hasn't  been  an  accident. 
Have  you  informed  the  police?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Pensiver,  and  then  after  a  pause  he 
added,  "Not  yet." 

The  men  stood  staring  at  each  other,  each  trying  to 
read  the  other's  thoughts.  At  last  Uncle  Grubhofer 
said,  "Yes,  I  will  come." 

He  left  i\lr.  Pensiver  to  wait  in  the  shop.  While  he 
was  robing  himself  in  more  appropriate  garments,  IMr. 


138  OLGA  BARDEL 

Pensiver  devoted  his  time  in  listening  keenly  for  any 
sound  that  might  give  him  a  clue  that  the  little  girl  was 
on  the  premises.  In  this  he  was  unsuccessful,  and  at 
last  Uncle  Grubhofer  appeared  and  they  entered  the 
car  together.  This  important  board  meeting  of  the 
syndicate  took  place  nearly  at  midnight,  in  a  small  room 
on  the  ground  floor  passage  which  they  called  the  smoke- 
room.  They  held  it  there  because  Mrs.  Du  Casson  gave 
her  decision  that  "she  would  not  under  any  circum- 
stances ask  that  dirty  old  blackguard  into  her  drawing- 
room. " 

The  four  partners  were  all  nervous,  and  not  sure  of 
each  other,  and  consequently  the  meeting  promised  to 
be  entirely  formal.  Mr.  Pensiver  began  by  saying  that, 
although  it  was  a  board  meeting,  they  could  do  nothing. 
They  could  make  no  decisions.  Mrs.  Du  Casson  said 
that  the  thing  they  could  decide  was — whether  to  in- 
form the  police,  and  if  so,  when. 

Mr.  Du  Casson  said,  "Surely,  Pensiver,  there  's  a 
good  ad.  here!  'Disappearance  of  infant  Prodigy!' 
What?" 

Mr,  Pensiver  said  it  might  or  might  not  be  a  good  ad- 
vertisement. It  all  depended  on  how  the  girl  was  dis- 
covered and  the  reason  for  her  disappearance.  If  they 
were  certain  of  producing  her  for  the  concert  on  Satur- 
day and  some  romantic  reason  for  her  disappearance 
were  forthcoming — that  she  had  been  kidnapped  or  had 
wandered  into  the  country  in  search  of  flowers — of 
course  it  would  be  excellent.  "But  if,  on  the  other 
hand,"  he  said,  "we  are  not  able  to  produce  her  and  the 
reason  of  her  disappearance  is  a — shall  we  say — dis- 
creditable reason,  it  would  act  in  a  contrary  fashion. 


"THE  BOARD  MEETING"  130 

Managers,  you  know,  do  not  like  an  artist  they  cannot 
rely  on." 

"I  have  a  feeling  she  '11  turn  up,"  said  Mr.  Du  Cas- 
son.  "You  're  sure  she  's  not  with  any  of  her  family, 
Mr.  Grubhofer?" 

"I  have  seen  her  sister  only  this  evening,"  said  that 
gentleman.  "And  her  brothers  are — er — abroad,"  and 
he  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"I  should  suggest,"  said  Mrs.  Du  Casson,  who  had 
her  original  project  always  in  her  mind's  eye,  "that  we 
discuss  future  arrangements  on  the  assumption  that  she 
will  turn  up, ' '  and  she  looked  at  Mr.  Pensiver. 

The  impresario  caught  her  eye  and  produced  some 
papers  from  his  pocket  and  turned  them  over  on  the 
table.  He  cleared  his  throat  and  put  down  the  stump 
of  his  cigar. 

"It  would,  of  course,"  he  said,  "be  idle  to  pretend 
that  the  little  girl  has  been  the — er — commercial  success 
that  we  hoped.  And  the  bookings  for  the  coming  sea- 
son are  fairly  numerous  but  unfortunately  not  very  re- 
munerative, and  after  that,  speaking  as  one  who  has 
had  a  very  considerable  experience  in  the  profession, 
I  'm  afraid  the  outlook  is  not  encouraging  and  for  this 
reason.  We  shall  soon  no  longer  be  able  to  produce  her 
as  a  prodigy  or  even  as  an  infant  phenomenon,  and  then 
of  course  the  value  of  the  attraction  sinks  to  zero.  Now 
our  contract  holds  good  for  seven  years  and  I  am  sure 
that  none  of  us  will  be  desirous  of  burking  our  obliga- 
tions. But  there  is,  of  course,  no  reason  why  any  mem- 
ber of  the  syndicate  should  not — with  the  consent  of  the 
other  members — sell  his  or  her  shares  to  an}-  other  mem- 
ber,    I  am  naturally  speaking  hypothetically — " 


140  OLGA  BARDEL 

"On  the  assumption  that  the  child  is  found,  of 
course,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Du  Casson. 

"On  the  assumption  that  the  child  is  found  before 
Saturda}^"  said  Mr.  Pensiver. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  lady. 

"I  attribute  great  importance  to  her  appearance  at 
the  Royal  Tonic  Society's  concert.  It  will  strengthen 
my  hand  in  the  provinces  enormously." 

"But  if  not?"  she  said;  "if  the  child  is  not  found?" 

Mr.  Pensiver  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  think  in 
any  case  we  will  have  covered  our  expenses,"  and  he 
bowed  slightly  to  Mrs.  Du  Casson  as  though  he  had  ren- 
dered some  signal  and  gallant  service  in  a  chivalrous 
cause. 

"It  's  a  pretty  dreadful  outlook,"  said  Mrs.  Du  Cas- 
son at  last,  scratching  with  a  pen  on  a  blotting  pad. 
"I  'm  afraid  you  will  feel  this  very  much,  Mr.  Grub- 
hofer."  There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Uncle  Grubhofer 
said, 

"I  believe  that  the  God  who  divided  the  waters  for 
the  children  of  Israel  will  deliver  our  little  lamb  back 
into  the  fold." 

This  sentence  murmured  in  a  thin  melancholy  voice 
seemed  to  stab  the  air  like  some  obscene  blasphemy. 
The  other  three  gasped  and  sat  back,  and  small  beads 
of  perspiration  gathered  on  the  brow  of  Mr,  Pensiver 
and  he  laughed  unpleasantly.     And  then  he  said, 

"Come  now — I  will  be  a  sportsman.  Would  any  one 
like  to  sell  me  their  share  in  the  sj-ndicate?  Mrs.  Du 
Casson?" 

It  is  difficult  to  know  how  much  of  the  little  scene 
that  followed  had  been  rehearsed  beforehand  by  the  Du 


"TPIE  BOARD  MEETING"  141 

Cassons  and  Mr.  Pensiver.  But  the  upshot  was  that 
Mrs.  Du  Casson  said  that  from  a  purely  commercial 
point  of  view  she  would  be  willing  to  sell  her  interests 
in  the  concern  for  a  hundred  pounds,  but  as  she  had 
promised  to  look  after  the  child  she  felt  she  could  not 
back  out  of  it.  Besides  she  had  developed  a  very  sin- 
cere affection  for  her  and  she  should  stick  to  her  as 
long  as  she  could.  Fortunately  she  and  i\Ir.  Du  Casson 
were  not  entirely  without  means,  so  that  the  prospect  of 
Olga  not  paying  her  way  did  not  disturb  her  in  the  least. 
It  seemed  dreadful  to  be  exploiting  a  little  girl  like  that, 
and  she  was  sure  they  all  felt  the  same. 

Uncle  Grubhofer  was  licking  the  wet  end  of  a  cigar 
and  dabbing  it  with  his  finger,  but  he  said  nothing.  He 
might  have  been  nursing  his  inconsolable  grief  at  the 
loss  of  the  lamb  from  the  fold. 

Mrs.  Du  Casson  continued  in  level  tones:  *'0f  course 
with  Mr.  Grubhofer  I  'm  afraid  it  's  different.  He  has 
already  had  all  the — bother  and  responsibility  of  bring- 
ing up  a  child,  who,  after  all,  is  not  his  own.  We  can 
hardly  expect  him  to — persevere.  Besides  he  has  his 
business  to  attend  to  in  such  a — in  a  part  of  London 
which  makes  it  difficult  for  him  to  get  in  touch  with — 
musical  matters.  And  he  is  launching  out,  I  under- 
stand, in  new  premises.  That  must  take  up  all  his  time 
and  any  capital  he  has  to  spare."  She  waited  as  though 
expecting  an  interruption,  but  it  did  not  come,  and  she 
continued:  "I  think  one  of  us  who  have  a  more  work- 
ing interest  in  the  child  should  take  the  responsibility 
out  of  his  hands.  If  you  agree,  Mr.  Grubhofer,  I  will 
pay  you  a  hundred  pounds  for  your  share  in  the  ar- 
rangement." 


142  OLGA  BARDEL 

They  all  looked  at  Grubhofer.  He  still  patted  his 
disheveled  cigar  and  then  he  said, 

"And  what  will  you  pay  me,  Mrs.  Du  Casson,  for 
my  broken  heart  ?  or  for  my  lonely  life  without  my  little 
niece  to  cheer  me?" 

Mrs.  Du  Casson  bit  her  lip.  She  was  a  little  annoyed. 
She  said,  "Oh,  well,  of  course,  Mr.  Grubhofer,  you  would 
always  have  access  to  the  child.  She  would  be  able  to 
come  and  see  you  on  Sundays  and  so  on. ' ' 

And  then  Uncle  Grubhofer  made  a  surprising  state- 
ment. 

"It  is  strange  you  should  have  made  this  proposal," 
he  murmured  in  a  doleful  voice,  "because  I  proposed  to 
make  a  similar  offer  to  you,  only  for  a  different  amount. 
I  will  give  you  five  hundred  pounds  for  your  share  in 
the  syndicate,  Mrs.  Du  Casson." 

The  three  of  them  started  as  though  a  bombshell  had 
fallen  in  the  room,  and  Mr.  Pensiver  said  in  a  hard  voice, 

"Does  your  offer  still  hold  good?" 

"I  make  it  in  all  faith  to  you,  Mrs.  Du  Casson,  and 
to  you,  Mr.  Pensiver.  If  you  will  both  forego  your  in- 
terests in  the  child,  I  will  pay  you  five  hundred  pounds 
each  to-night."  The  three  looked  at  each  other  as 
though  trying  to  read  how  much  the  others  considered 
this  bluff  and  how  much  genuine.  And  then  Mr.  Pen- 
siver laughed  uneasily  and  said, 

' '  But  of  course  we  are  all  talking  a  little  wildly.  The 
child  has  disappeared.  For  all  we  know  she  may — we 
may  never  be  able  to  complete." 

Uncle  Grubhofer  produced  a  grubby  check  book  and 
a  fountain  pen,  that  he  tried  by  languidly  jerking  it  on 
the  tablecloth.     And  then  he  said, 


"THE  BOARD  MEETING"  143 

**I  am  willing  to  take  my  chance.  Will  you  both 
agree  to  accept  five  hundred  pounds  to  forego  your 
claims  whether  the  child  turns  up  or  not?" 

"Ah!"  a  chilling  gasp  escaped  Mrs.  Du  Casson  and 
Mr.  Pensiver. 

"You  seem  very  confident,"  said  the  impresario  de- 
liberately, "that  the  child  will  turn  up."  And  then  he 
shivered  with  a  dread  that  Uncle  Grubhofer  would  make 
some  reference  to  the  "lamb  returning  to  the  fold." 
But  he  did  not.  He  seemed  to  be  waiting  indifferently 
for  the  decision  of  the  others. 

It  was  Mrs.  Du  Casson  who  had  the  instinct  to  act. 
Her  eyes  looked  strained  and  hard,  as  though  she  had  be- 
come aware  of  some  unpleasant  fact,  and  meant  to  deal 
with  it  at  all  costs.  She  looked  across  the  table  and  fixed 
her  eyes  very  intently  on  ]\Ir.  Grubhofer  and  said,  "If  the 
child  turns  up  by  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow,  I  will  pay 
you  seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  for  your  interests  in 
the  concern." 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!"  said  Uncle  Grubhofer. 
"Don't  let  us  talk  as  though  the  dear  child  may  not 
turn  up." 

"Let  us  say  then — if  you  promise  that  the  child  will 
turn  up ! " 

' '  I  say,  Eva ! "  It  was  Mr.  Du  Casson  who  exclaimed 
this.  He  began  to  feel  that  the  atmosphere  was  unpleas- 
ant and  he  had  a  dread  that  his  wife  was  going  to  make 
a  fool  of  herself.  But  she  turned  on  him  angrily  and 
gave  him  an  expression  that  dried  up  all  his  instincts  of 
interference  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Mr.  Pensiver  rustled  his  papers  about  and  pressed  his 
hair  back. 


144  OLGA  BARDEL 

"I  hope  you  have  given  your  offer  consideration,  Mrs. 
Du  Casson.  It  appears  to  me  a  surprisingly  generous 
one,  and  of  course  if  Mr.  Grubhofer  accepts  it,  it  is  a 
tacit  admission  that  he  knows  where  the  child  is  and  can 
produce  her.     It  practically  amounts — " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  Mrs.  Du  Casson, 
who  had  never  taken  her  eyes  off  Grubhofer,  said  in  a 
high,  detached  voice: 

"I  have  a  curious  faith  that  if  Mr.  Grubhofer  says 
that  the  child  will  turn  up  to-morrow,  she  will  turn  up. 
I  am  prepared  to  back  my  opinion  to  the  extent  of  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds." 

Uncle  Grubhofer  never  raised  his  eyes  from  the  blot- 
ting paper  in  front  of  him.  He  had  made  a  little  pile 
of  cigar  ash  and  he  kept  pushing  it  with  his  fingers. 
His  appearance  was  in  every  way  disconsolate.  At  last 
he  said : 

"This  arrangement  would  break  my  heart.  Think 
of  it !  all  my  dear  brother-in-law 's  children  are  now 
scattered.  There  is  no  one  to  soothe  their  uncle's  last 
years.  This  little  girl, — "  there  was  a  catch  in  his 
voice — "she  is  the  last.  For  seven  years  she  might  be 
my  guardian  angel,  brightening  my  lonely  home,  attend- 
ing to  my  meager  wants.  How  tragic  is  this  genius! 
what  a  trail  of  sadness  it  always  leaves.  One  cannot 
encompass  it,  or  understand  it.  At  the  end  of  seven 
years  what  may  she  not  be?  She  may  have  forgotten 
her  uncle  entirely,  or  he  may  be  dead.  It  is  terrible. 
I  appreciate  what  you  say,  Mrs.  Du  Casson,  and  it  is 
nice  in  this  hard  world  to  find  such  a  woman  as  you, 
with  your  pure,  maternal,  disinterested  heart" — just 
for  a  second  he  glanced  up  and  his  smile  was  one  of  the 


"THE  BOARD  MEETING"  145 

most  horrible  episodes  of  the  evening,  and  then  he  con- 
tinued, ruminating  in  the  pile  of  tobacco  ash —  "She 
will  never  forget  you.  You  will  always  be  the  bright 
maternal  figure  to  her,  taking  the  place  of — every  one 
else.  She  will  learn  to  love  you  more  and  more,  and  in 
after  life  she  will  repay  your  old  age.  Ah!"  he  sighed 
lugubriously,  "I  know  it  is  probably  my  duty  to  accept, 
and  yet — well,  ]Mrs.  Du  Casson,  only  God  can  judge 
these  things.  For  a  thousand  poiuids  I  will  do  what 
you  say,  only  from  Mr.  Pensiver  I  shall  also  want  a 
hundred  pounds  a  year  while  the  contract  lasts!" 

"I  '11  see  you  damned — "  commenced  Mr.  Pensiver, 
but  Mrs.  Du  Casson  jumped  up  and  exclaimed : 

"Wait  a  moment!  Mr.  Pensiver,  Louis,  come  into 
the  next  room.  I  want  to  have  a  word  with  you  before 
anything  further  is  said."  Mrs.  Du  Casson  was  a  little 
hysterical  and  not  to  be  denied.  The  three  others 
trouped  out  and  left  Uncle  Grubhofer  to  his  pile  of 
tobacco  ash.  They  were  out  of  the  room  less  than  five 
minutes.     "^Hien  they  returned  Mr.  Pensiver  said : 

"We  've  thought  this  matter  over,  Grubhofer,  and  we 
accept  the  terms.  On  this  condition,  that  during  this 
time  you  make  no  claim  at  all  upon  us  or  the  child. 
That  you  do  not  attempt  to  see  her  or  us  and  that  you 
sign  a  contract  to  that  effect,  and  also  that  the  child 
returns  to-morrow  morning  by  twelve  o'clock.  ]\rrs.  Du 
Casson  will  give  you  a  check  for  a  thousand  pounds  now 
dated  the  day  after  to-morrow,  so  of  course  if  the  child 
does  not  appear,  the  check  is  stopped.     Do  you  agree  ? ' ' 

Uncle  Grubhofer  was  too  upset  to  answer.  He 
merely  nodded  his  head,  as  though  agreeing  to  his  own 
execution.     The    check    and    contract    changed    hands. 


146  OLGA  BAKDEL 

And  then  the  large  man  rose  up  and  walked  to  the  door. 
He  seemed  dazed.  He  was  apparently  too  heartbroken 
to  indulge  in  any  valediction.  He  rolled  heavily 
through  the  hall,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  out 
into  the  street. 

When  the  door  slammed,  the  other  three  looked  at 
each  other  and  Mrs.  Du  Casson  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 
No  one  spoke  for  a  few  moments  and  then  Mr.  Du  Cas- 
son said, 

' '  I  say,  Eva,  you  know,  it  's  all  very  well,  but  that 
blackguard  has  blackmailed  us!" 

"1  know!  I  know!  but.  Good  God,  it  was  worth  it!" 
and  she  gave  a  little  hysterical  sob. 

"Of  course  he  's  got  the  girl  at  home  all  the  time!" 
said  Mr.  Du  Casson,  as  though  expecting  some  credit 
for  his  perspicacity  and  restraint.  "He  just  came 
bouncing  in  and  blackmailed  you  both." 

"It  is  the  first  time  in  my  professional  career  that  I 
have  been  blackmailed,"  said  Mr.  Pensiver,  "but  I  think 
it  was  worth  it.  You  were  right,  Mrs.  Du  Casson. 
After  all  I  've  booked  nearly  a  thousand  pounds'  worth 
of  engagements  for  the  coming  season,  and  then  I  think 
we  can  start  on  America.  A  successful  American  tour 
will  soon  take  the  taste  of  this  out  of  our  mouths." 

' '  Oh,  the  relief  of  feeling  that  we  've  done  with  that— 
nightmare  forever!" 

"Do  you  know  it's  a  quarter  to  three!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Du  Casson.  Mr.  Pensiver 's  car  was  still  waiting 
and  he  took  his  departure. 

The  Du  Cassons  had  had  a  disturbing  evening  and 
when  it  was  over  they  could  not  sleep.  They  lay  awake 
for  hours  discussing  the  situation,  indulging  in  recrim- 


"THE  BOARD  MEETING"  147 

inations  and  doubts  aud  hopes.  It  must  have  been 
nearly  daylight  before  they  went  to  sleep. 

At  half -past  ten  the  next  morning  they  were  still 
sleeping,  then  ]\Ir.  Du  Casson  half  wakened.  He  was 
wondering  why  a  certain  air  kept  running  through  his 
head  and  it  seemed  more  and  more  insistent.  At  last 
he  sat  up  doubtfully  and  listened  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 
Then  he  awakened  his  wife. 

"Eva,  Eva,"  he  said.     "Listen!" 

Mrs.  Du  Casson  yawned  and  said  peevishly,  "What 
is  it?" 

Then  she  looked  at  her  husband  and  the  truth  flashed 
through  both  of  them. 

The  "lamb  had  returned  to  the  fold"  and  was  hard 
at  work  practising  the  slow  movement  of  the  Grieg  con- 
certo! 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   TWO    METHODS 

OLGA'S  mind  worked  with  peculiar  transcend- 
ence on  her  return  journey  from  her  visit  to 
Irene.  The  railway  carriage  was  very  cold  and 
she  shivered  in  one  of  the  corners,  but  her  spirits  were 
buoyant.  She  saw  things  at  oblique  and  interesting 
angles,  and  felt  for  the  first  time  a  desire  to  put  them 
in  their  place.  She  looked  out  of  the  window  and  saw 
the  green  country  bathed  in  a  gray  dew.  She  left  the 
window  open  and  the  air  felt  damp,  but  sweet  and  good. 
Impulses  within  her  moved  towards  a  greater  sense  of 
independence.  Life  had  so  far  played  the  unholy  jest 
upon  her  of  giving  her  a  great  heart,  and  then  depriv- 
ing her  of  any  great  object  of  affection.  She  was  like 
a  splendid,  untuned  instrument  lying  forgotten  in  a 
drawer.  The  only  affection  she  had  ever  enjoyed  had 
been  for  Miss  Merson,  and  this  she  realized  was  because 
Miss  Merson  had  been  kind  and  good  to  her.  There  was 
nothing  fundamental  about  it.  She  had  a  fundamental 
affection  for  Irene  and  Karl  and  Montague,  but  it  had 
been  cabined  and  confined  by  their  indifference  to  her. 
The  rest  of  the  people  were  but  shadows  acting  in  in- 
comprehensible ways.  The  dominant  thing  that  life 
had  so  far  given  her  had  been — moods.  IMoods  of  ter- 
ror, of  fear,  of  unexplaiuable  passion,  of  longing;  moods 

148 


THE  TWO  METHODS  149 

of  pity  too  deep  for  expression;  moods  of  sorrow  that 
could  not  be  assuaged,  and  yet  that  left  her  tranquil ; 
moods  of  little  jealousies  and  uncontrollable  dislikes. 
Life  had  also  given  her  most  wonderful  hands,  and  an 
inborn  sense  of  rhythm.  There  also  came  to  her  at 
moments  a  certainty  that  she  had  experienced  all  this 
before. 

Sometimes  on  the  tour  and  in  artists'  rooms  in  Lon- 
don people  had  come  to  her  and  spoken  kindly  to  her. 
She  had  looked  into  their  steady  eyes,  and  felt  a  desire 
to  know  them.  But  they  came  and  touched  her  hand 
and  vanished.  People  seemed  to  be  always  coming  and 
going — like  that — passing  by  her  like  a  pageant.  But 
often  they  left  her  something — just  a  word — a  look, 
something  that  helped  to  quicken  her  sensibilities. 

Often  she  longed  for  IMr.  Casewell  again,  and 
"Levitch  himself,"  who  gave  her  the  apple.  She  felt 
somehow  that  she  would  get  on  with  these  people.  Be- 
hind the  dark  half-humorous  eyes  of  "Levitch  himself" 
lurked  unexplored  worlds,  where  things  would  be  better 
balanced,  saner,  more  beautiful  .  .  .  There  must  be 
others  like  Levitch. 

The  train  rumbled  through  Clapham  Junction,  where 
some  workmen  got  in  on  their  way  to  work.  She  felt 
important  and  independent  traveling  into  London  with 
workmen.  She  never  lost  that  feeling  all  her  life,  the 
feeling  of  mental  stimulus  when  approaching  London 
in  a  train  and  of  mixing  with  people  on  their  way  to 
work.  The  rows  of  houses  with  their  gray  faces  each 
expressed  something  different,,  and  then  here  and  there 
some  great  church  or  factory  rose  with  insolent  asser- 
tion above  the  general  level  of  domesticity. 


150  OLGA  BARDEL 

' '  Do  you  mind  having  the  window  up,  miss  ? ' ' 

She  was  being  appealed  to  by  a  man.  He  may  have 
been  a  stonemason  or  a  carpenter.  It  was  very  kind 
of  him  to  ask  her  like  that,  an  acknowledgment  of  her 
civic  rights  in  this  great  and  illimitable  city. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  said  and  yawned  with  a  pleasant 
sense  of  ease. 

As  the  train  was  crossing  the  river,  Irene's  remark 
occurred  to  her  about  the  police  and  taking  the  money. 
Perhaps  when  she  arrived  at  the  Du  Cassons'  she  would 
be  arrested  and  taken  away  to  prison.  She  felt  curi- 
ously indifferent  about  this.  It  would  be  interesting 
to  go  to  prison,  to  see  what  it  was  like.  Perhaps  she 
would  see  Karl.  And  then  one  day  they  would  let  her 
out  again ;  they  never  kept  people  in  prison  forever,  and 
then  she  would  see  the  great  river  again  and  the  fields 
in  their  morning  dew.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  any  case  much  better  for  Irene  to  have  all 
that  gold  than  Mrs.  Du  Casson.  Irene  was  very,  very 
poor,  and  Mrs.  Du  Casson  was  very  rich. 

She  arrived  at  the  Du  Cassons'  very  early,  again  be- 
fore they  were  up.  She  surprised  the  maid  by  order- 
ing some  breakfast  for  herself.  She  was  cold  and  hun- 
gry. They  took  a  long  time  making  the  tea,  but  at  last 
it  came.  She  had  an  egg  and  lots  of  marmalade  and 
bread  and  three  cups  of  tea,  and  then  sat  in  front  of  the 
fire.  She  felt  well  and  buoyant  and  the  desire  to  create 
came  to  her.  She  went  up  to  her  room  and  took  off  her 
hat,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  immersed  in  the  intri- 
cacies of  the  slow  movement  of  the  Grieg  concerto.  She 
found  it  absorbing.  She  was  convinced  that  Mr.  Du 
Casson  was  wrong  about  the  reading  of  certain  pas- 


THE  TWO  METHODS  151 

sages.  She  worked  on  for  nearly  two  hours,  when  sud- 
denly the  door  opened  and  ^Ir.  Du  Casson's  head  ap- 
peared. He  was  smiling  as  usual,  his  dark  mustache 
lifted  with  an  irritating  regularity  above  his  perfect 
teeth. 

"Well,"  he  cried  out  breezily,  **so  we  're  back  again, 
are  we?    Well,  well,  how  are  we  getting  on?" 

He  made  no  further  reference  to  her  disappearance 
or  to  the  loss  of  the  money.  He  talked  only  about  the 
music.  It  was  very  difficult.  She  knew  she  could  not 
play  it  as  it  should  be  played,  and  yet  she  felt  even 
surer  than  ever  that  Mr.  Du  Casson's  way  was  not  the 
right  way.  She  argued  with  him  on  certain  points, 
and  she  hated  the  patronizing  way  he  spoke  to  her. 
When  the  lunch  gong  went,  she  went  down  to  the  draw- 
ing-room. Mrs.  Du  Casson  was  there  surrounded  by 
her  yapping  dogs.  She  kissed  her,  but  Olga  was  in- 
stantly aware  of  the  slight  chilling  difference  in  man- 
ner. She  believed  Mrs.  Du  Casson  said:  "When  you 
want  to  go  and  spend  the  night  with  friends,  Olga,  you 
must  let  us  know.  It  's  very  worrying  not  knowing 
where  you  are." 

She  believed  she  said  this,  but  the  dogs  made  such  a 
noise  it  was  impossible  to  be  certain.  They  went  into 
the  dining-room  and  got  through  a  rather  self-conscious 
meal,  Mr.  and  ]\Irs.  Du  Casson  seeming  at  a  loss  to  know 
what  to  say  to  her,  and  so  keeping  up  a  loud,  vapid 
conversation  between  themselves  shouting  above  the  din 
of  the  dogs.  After  lunch  she  went  back  to  her  room. 
She  worked  hard  at  the  Grieg  concerto  but  did  not  feel 
happy  about  it.  She  had  a  rehearsal  with  the  orchestra 
on  the  Friday  and  was  introduced  to  the  great  Emil 


152  OLGA  BARDEIj 

Maunlyas,  the  world-famous  conductor.  He  was  a 
large,  distinguished -looking  man  with  a  pointed  beard, 
and  a  keen  reflective  face.  He  shook  hands  with  her 
amiably.  They  played  the  first  movement.  It  was  not 
a  success.  The  great  man  kept  stopping  the  orchestra 
and  looking  at  her  askance.  She  asked  him  a  question 
once,  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said:  "It  is 
for  you  to  lead,  Miss — er — " 

She  knew  he  was  displeased  with  her,  and  she  did  not 
know  what  to  do.  She  could  not  play  the  concerto  any 
better,  the  time  was  all  wrong  in  places,  and  there  was 
no  one  to  help  her.  She  felt  like  crying  and  then  she 
thought,  "I  must  do  the  best  I  can,"  and  she  went 
through  with  it.  She  felt  ashamed  of  meeting  M.  Maun- 
lyas afterwards  and  she  avoided  him. 

On  the  Saturday  for  the  first  time  she  felt  very 
nervous.  It  required  great  will  power  to  force  herself 
to  go  on  the  platform.  When  she  did,  she  was  received 
with  the  usual  applause.  She  started  well,  but  soon  got 
into  difficulties.  Her  runs  came  off  splendidly,  but  she 
was  conscious  that  it  was  all  wrong  somehow,  wrong 
and  meaningless.  At  the  end  of  the  first  movement 
the  people  applauded  vociferously,  and  she  stood  up  and 
bowed,  but  as  she  turned  again  to  the  piano,  her  eye 
caught  the  grave  meditative  look  of  M,  Maunlyas.  She 
bit  her  lips  and  started  on  the  second  movement.  x\t 
the  end  of  the  concerto  the  applause  was  tremendous. 
She  bowed  again  and  again  to  the  house  and  the  orches- 
tra. M.  Maunlyas  was  clapping  too,  but  she  could  tell 
by  the  way  he  did  it  that  it  was  done  out  of  courtesy. 
She  went  off  the  platform,  but  was  recalled  four  times. 
And  then  M.  Maunlvas  lead  her  on  himself  and  bowed 


THE  TWO  METHODS  153 

stiffly  to  her,  and  the  people  applauded  this  act  even 
more. 

At  last  she  got  back  to  the  artists'  room.  She  was 
very  unstrung  and  struggled  to  keep  back  the  tears. 
There  were  several  people  there,  and  M.  Maunlyas  was 
talking  to  a  man  by  the  door.  Mr.  Du  Casson  was 
dancing  about  like  a  wild  cat,  and  i\Ir.  Pensiver  was 
looking  smugly  satisfied.  M.  Maunlyas  moved  towards 
the  door.  He  would  have  to  go  on  in  three  minutes' 
time  and  conduct  another  piece.  Olga  jumped  up  and 
touched  him  on  the  arm.     He  looked  round. 

"Oh!  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said,  and  her  face  was 
racked  with  anguish.  "I  'm  so  sorry  I  played  so  badly! 
I  couldn't — I  wanted  it  to  be  different — I — "  her  voice 
stopped,  choked  with  tears. 

The  great  man  looked  at  her  surprised.  He  patted 
her  hands  kindly  and  said,  "My  dear  young  lady!" 
He  bowed  stiffly.  Some  one  was  calling  him,  and  he 
went  out  and  she  did  not  see  him  again. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  noise  and  confusion.  In 
the  distance  she  heard  the  droning  of  the  'cellos  and 
fiddles  tuning  up.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  tried  to 
steadj^  herself.  Suddenly  a  voice  said,  "Do  you  remem- 
ber me,  Olga?" 

She  looked  up  quickly  and  found  herself  looking  into 
the  keen,  intelligent  face  of  Mr.  Casewell.  She  gave  a 
little  gasp  and  put  out  both  her  hands  and  he  took  them 
and  pressed  them. 

"You  seem  to  be  becoming  a  great  lady,"  he  said. 
"I  felt  I  must  come  round  and  see  you.  How  are  you, 
Olga?" 

She    glanced    quickly   round    the    room.     It    seemed 


154  OLGA  BARDEL 

providential,  this  sudden  advent  of  Mr.  Casewell.  Mr. 
Du  Casson  had  danced  off  somewhere  else,  and  Mr.  Pen- 
siver  had  no  doubt  returned  to  the  box-office.  Mrs.  Du 
Casson  was  in  front.  There  was  no  one  in  the  room 
who  knew  her.     She  clutched  his  forearm. 

* '  Take  me  away,  will  you  ?     Take  me  out  of  this ! ' ' 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Casewell  kindly  but  a 
little  surprised.  "Put  on  your  cloak  and  we  '11  go  and 
have  some  chocolate  at  Coutis'." 

She  did  as  he  said.  She  pulled  on  her  cloak  rapidly, 
and  changed  her  shoes  and  then  darted  out  of  the  room. 
He  followed  her  through  a  dimly  lighted  basement  and 
up  some  stone  steps  into  the  street  and  noted  her  fear- 
ful eagerness  to  get  away.  When  they  were  in  the 
street  she  did  not  speak  but  hurried  along  at  .his  side. 
When  they  were  quite  clear  of  all  that  appertained  to 
the  concert  hall,  she  said,  "Mr.  Casewell,  is  there  any- 
where we  could  go?  Do  you  know,  I  don't  want  to  go 
to  a  public  restaurant.     I  want  to  talk  to  you.     May  I  ? " 

"Quite,"  said  Mr.  Casewell.  "Will  you  come  to  my 
rooms?     You  don't  think  your  guardians  will  mind?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  care,"  she  said  suddenly. 

He  laughed  and  called  a  cab.  In  less  than  five 
minutes  they  were  sitting  in  front  of  a  fire  in  Mr.  Case- 
well's  bachelor  chambers,  and  he  was  making  her  some 
cocoa. 

"Now!"  he  said  as  he  poured  some  direct  from  a 
saucepan  into  her  cup,  "tell  me." 

Olga  took  a  sip  of  the  hot  drink  and  looked  into  the 
fire,  and  then  she  said,  "Tell  me,  Mr.  Casewell,  how 
did  you  think  I  played?" 

"Brilliantly,"  he  answered,  "brilliantly!" 


THE  TWO  METHODS  155 

"No,"  she  said  firmly,  "tell  me  what  you  really, 
really  think." 

He  laughed,  and  after  a  pause  said,  "Well,  of  course, 
I — it  may  sound  like  professional  jealousy  or  interfer- 
ence." 

"No,  no,"  she  said  eagerly,  "go  on!  That  's  just  it, 
that  's  what  I  want." 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  thought,  of  course,  your  technique 
was  remarkable,  but  honestly  1  didn't  think  you 
grasped  the  shape  of  the  music  a  bit.  I  don't  think  you 
understood  it." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Olga,  and  she  took  vicious  little 
sips  at  the  boiling  cocoa. 

"Of  course  I  take  it  that  this  is  Du  Casson's  reading. 
Anything  I  say  may — " 

She  interrupted  him  by  stretching  out  her  hand  and 
holding  his. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Casewell,"  she  said,  "I  'm  so  unhappy!" 

Richard  Casewell  suddenly  felt  himself  on  dangerous 
ground.  He  had  always  liked  and  admired  this  strange 
little  girl,  and  had  great  hopes  of  her  and  wanted  to  be 
her  friend.  But  the  sudden  appearance  of  this  rival 
faction  of  guardianship  over  her  made  it  very  difficult. 
It  was  obvious  that  any  approaches  that  he  made  to  re- 
gain her  either  as  a  pupil  or  a  friend  would  be  subject 
to  serious  misunderstanding.  He  had  a  hardly  won 
reputation  as  a  serious  professor,  and  it  was  a  reputa- 
tion he  was  a  little  jealous  of.  He  also  had  responsi- 
bilities, a  mother  and  a  sister  who  were  dependent  on 
him.  He  had  been  round  to  see  Olga  to-night  because 
it  seemed  a  reasonable  and  kindly  thing  to  do.  but  he 
had  had  no  intentions  of  acting  in  any  way  that  sug- 


156  OLGA  BAEDEL 

gested  that  he  was  trying  to  regain  her.  He  saw  now 
that  the  situation  was  going  to  be  complicated  by  some 
confession,  and  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  how  to 
act.  He  looked  at  her  face  and  noticed  that  it  had 
developed  since  the  day  when  she  first  came  to  him. 
The  chin  seemed  squarer  and  she  held  herself  with  a 
certain  looseness  and  independence.  Her  eyes  were 
deeper  and  more  reflective,  as  though  they  had  already 
suffered  the  pangs  of  introspective  sorrow,  as  apart  from 
the  sorrows  of  beatings  and  bad  food  that  she  suffered 
in  the  earlier  days.  She  brooded  tensely  as  she  leaned 
forward  on  the  tuffet  that  he  had  drawn  up  for  her  in 
front  of  the  fire. 

"Good  God!"  he  thought  to  himself,  "what  a  woman 
this  will  be."  He  wanted  to  gain  time  and  so  he  said, 
' '  Unhappy !  Oh,  come !  You  who  have  been  the  suc- 
cess of  two  seasons!  You  who  have  sat  at  rich  men's 
feasts!" 

"Don't!"  she  said  and  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 
"You  know,  Mr.  Casewell,  that  all  this  is  nothing!  or 
at  least  not  everything." 

Mr.  Casewell  stared  at  her  and  wondered. 

She  continued.  "I  don't  know  how  it  is.  I  some- 
times think  I  would  rather  go  back  to  Canning  Town. 
There  is  no  one — nothing  here.  Do  you  know  what  I 
mean?  I  feel  sometimes  at  the  Du  Cassons'  as  though 
I  shall  go  mad.  I  hate  everything  about  them.  They 
seem  to  choke  me.  Of  course  they  're  kind — in  a  way. 
It  's  just  that,  as  though  I  was  choking  all  the  time. 
And  I  want  to  play — differently  somehow — and  he,  Mr. 
Du  Casson  keeps  on  pushing  me  round  and  round  in  a 
circle.     Do  you  know  what  I  mean,  Mr.  Casewell?" 


THE  TWO  METHODS  157 

Mr,  Casewell  knew  too  well  what  she  meant,  and  the 
knowledge  did  not  make  his  position  easier.  He  put 
her  cup  down  for  her  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

"I  would  like  to  do  anything  I  could,"  he  said  after 
a  time;  "of  course,  you  will  see,  Olga,  it  is  a  little  diffi- 
cult for  me,  won't  you?  I  cannot  take  you  away  from 
Du  Casson.  You  are  no  longer  a  waif  of  the  streets. 
You  are  a  person  of  note.  You  make  money.  You  are 
independent.  Of  course,  I  don 't  see  why  you  should  n  't 
come  and  see  me  sometimes — as  a  friend.  It  would 
make  me  very  happy  if  you  would  do  so,  and  if  you  let 
me  help  you  in  any  way  I  can." 

"Will  you  help  me  with  my  work?" 

Mr.  Casewell  looked  at  her  meditatively. 

"That  of  course  is  rather  the  difficulty.  While  you 
are  with  Du  Casson  I  can  hardly — " 

"I  won't  let  him  know,"  said  Olga  quickly,  with  a 
sudden  change  of  countenance. 

Mr.  Casewell  looked  solemnly  into  the  fire,  and  read- 
justed his  glasses. 

"Say  yes,  yes."  Her  round,  eager  young  face  was 
very  close  to  his,  and  her  deep  eyes  were  pleading. 
Some  instinct  made  him  stoop  down  and  kiss  her  cheek. 

"All  right,  you  little  schemer,"  he  said,  "we  '11  do 
it.     And  now  I  must  take  you  back ! ' ' 

"So  soon?"  she  said,  and  as  she  lay  curled  on  the 
tuffet  it  struck  him  that  there  was  something  feline  and 
sinuous  about  the  lines  of  her.  She  smiled  and  was 
very  much  a  child  again,  "Tell  me,  have  you  any 
news?     Have  you  seen  Miss  Merson?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  he  answered,  smiling  in  turn,  "I  believe  she 
has  gone  to  Birmingham — ^to  a  school  there.    I  see  Miss 


158  OLGA  BARDEL 

Kenway  sometimes.  We  often  talk  about  you  and  read 
about  you.  What  a  trying  time  you  must  have  had 
among  the  Armenians!"  He  added  this  last  sentence 
suddenly  with  a  sly  smile. 

Olga  blushed  and  said,  "Isn't  it  dreadful!  It  makes 
me  so  wretched— that  sort  of  thing.  And  'Levitch  him- 
self?    Where  is  he?" 

"He's  in  Prague,"  said  Mr.  Casewell.  "He  lives 
there,  you  know.  He  only  comes  over  for  three  months 
every  year.  He  will  be  here  in  May.  Come!  I  shall 
get  into  dreadful  trouble  if  you  do  not  come  back  now. 
Come  and  see  me  on  Wednesday  afternoon  at  four 
o'clock,  if  you  are  free." 

They  walked  back  to  the  concert  hall  and  Mr.  Case- 
well  said  good-by  to  her  outside.  When  she  got  back  to 
the  artists'  room  Mrs.  Du  Casson  was  there. 

"Hullo,  child,"  she  exclaimed.  "Where  have  you 
been?     We  've  been  looking  for  you." 

"I  had  to  go  out  and  get  some  air.  It  was  so  close. 
I  felt  I  couldn't  breathe." 

"But  not  by  yourself,  my  dear  child,  surely?" 
"Why  not?"  said  Olga,  and  thus  saved  herself  the 
ignominy  of  telling  the  lie  she  was  prepared  to  tell. 
The  concert  was  nearly  over,  and  the  orchestra  was  play- 
ing the  last  item  on  the  program.  Mrs.  Du  Casson 
said  they  had  better  wait  so  as  to  have  a  talk  with  Mon- 
sieur Maunlyas  and  anybody  else  of  importance  who 
came  round. 

The  idea  of  this  seemed  repulsive  to  Olga,  so  while 
Mrs.  Du  Casson 's  back  was  turned  she  slipped  out  of 
the  artists'  room  and  went  out  into  the  street.  She 
found  the  Du  Cassons'  car  and  got  into  it  and  waited 


THE  TWO  METHODS  159 

for  them.  They  did  not  come  for  about  twenty  minutes 
and  when  they  did  there  was  a  real  row  for  the  first 
time  between  the  Du  Cassons  and  their  charge.  Olga 
would  give  no  other  explanation  of  her  disappearance 
than  that  she  was  tired  and  did  n't  want  to  see  any  one. 
Mrs,  Du  Casson  got  really  angry  and  said  that  while 
she  was  in  their  charge  she  was  to  do  as  she  was  told. 
It  was  disgraceful  conduct  on  her  part  to  go  off  like 
that,  and  very  bad  business.  She,  ]\Irs.  Du  Casson,  had 
given  up  all  her  time  and  energy  to  making  her  a  suc- 
cess and  it  was  extremely  ungrateful.  One  of  the  first 
things  she  had  to  learn  was  to  be  gracious  to  every  one, 
and  when  it  came  to  the  conductors  she  must  simply  do 
anything  to  try  and  please  them  and  get  in  their  favor. 
They — the  Du  Cassons — had  spent  an  enormous  sum 
of  money  making  her  a  popular  success  and  they  hoped 
to  make  her  an  even  greater  success,  but  if  she  was 
going  to  behave  like  that,  well,  Mrs.  Du  Casson  didn't 
know  what  she  should  do,  she  should  have  to  reconsider 
everything. 

"I  played  badly,"  said  Olga. 

"Badly!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Du  Casson.  "Why,  you 
were  a  great  success !     Everybody  was  delighted ! ' ' 

"They  don't  know,"  persisted  Olg^.  "I  played  dis- 
gracefully. ' ' 

"What  on  earth  is  the  child  talking  about?"  A  hor- 
rible thought  struck  Mrs.  Du  Casson.  Was  that  ap- 
palling uncle  of  hers,  Grubhofer,  at  the  back  of  this? 
Was  he  trying  some  secret  game  to  make  her  discon- 
tented? to  get  her  away  from  them?  She  leaned  for- 
ward in  the  car  and  looking  at  Olga  very  searchiugly  she 
said,  "Have  you  seen  your  Uncle  Grubhofer  to-night?" 


160  OLGA  BARDEL 

The  mention  of  that  name  seemed  to  send  the  vibrat- 
ing passions  of  the  three  of  them  off  into  more  chilling 
channels.  Olga  said,  "No,"  and  she  shivered  slightly. 
She  had  been  forgetting  about  Uncle  Grubhofer  during 
the  last  few  days,  and  the  thought  of  him  brought  back 
a  thousand  dreads.  She  did  not  fear  the  Du  Cassons. 
She  disliked  them  and  despised  them,  the  experiences 
of  the  evening  had  bred  in  her  a  virulence  toward  them. 
Certain  things  were  rankling,  and  one  was  that  the 
great  Maunlyas  despised  her,  despised  her  because  of 
these  people  and  their  mode  of  thought,  and  the  way 
they  trained  her.  She  could  not  picture  Maunlyas  in 
Mrs.  Du  Casson's  drawing-room,  talking  vapid  things 
among  the  little  dogs.  He  was  one  of  them,  like  Mr. 
Casewell  and  "Levitch  himself."  He  knew.  He  was 
one  of  the  great  people,  people  who  did  n  't  fuss  and  say 
things  they  did  n  't  mean.  She  was  excited  at  meeting 
Mr.  Casewell.  It  opened  glorious  prospects  to  her. 
She  didn't  care  about  the  Du  Cassons.  They  could  do 
what  they  liked,  turn  her  out  in  the  street.  She  would 
go  to  Mr.  Casewell  in  spite  of  them.  But  somehow  she 
felt  afraid  of  Uncle  Grubhofer.  The  very  mention  of 
his  name  cast  portentous  shadows  across  the  fair  pros- 
pect. And  the  mention  of  his  name  dulled  the  spirits 
of  the  loquacious  Du  Cassons.  They  arrived  home,  and 
Olga,  refusing  any  refreshment,  went  straight  to  bed. 
The  Du  Cassons  sat  up  some  time  and  discussed  the 
situation  and  were  peevish  with  each  other. 

"I  don't  like  it,"  said  Mr.  Du  Casson.  *'I  believe 
the  old  devil  has  put  her  up  to  it.  She  's  been  like  it 
ever  since  she  came  back — argues  with  me  about  read- 
ings, if  you  please !     Seems  to  think  she  knows.     She  's 


THE  TWO  METHODS  161 

sullen  and  obstinate,  and  to-night  she  was  rude  to  you 
in  the  car,  Eva,  By  God !  she  flew  out  like  a  little  cat ! 
Makes  one  feel  one  would  like  to  chuck  her!" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Du  Casson  bitingly,  "and  chuck 
away  the  thousand  pounds  we  gave  for  her  last  week  ! 
That  would  be  verj'  clever." 

"I  never  wanted  to  go  in  on  it,"  said  Mr.  Du  Casson. 

"No,"  said  his  wife  savagely,  "I  know  you  didn't. 
In  the  first  place  you  haven't  got  a  thousand  pounds 
and  in  the  second  place  you  haven't  any  enterprise. 
I  tell  you  there  's  a  thousand  a  year  clear  to  be  made 
out  of  this  arranp:ement  while  it  lasts.  What  sort  of 
turnover  on  one's  money  is  that,  do  you  think?  Oh, 
no,  I  'm  going  to  stick  to  it.  And  I  'm  going  to  have 
her  watched.  We  have  our  contract.  If  I  find  that  old 
swine  has  been  seeing  her  and  getting  at  her,  I  '11  have 
him  sued." 

Nevertheless  Mrs.  Du  Casson  did  not  put  her  threat 
into  immediate  execution.  On  the  next  morning  ^Mr. 
Pensiver  rang  up.  The  Royal  Tonic  Society  concert 
had  been  a  great  success.  The  press  was  eulogistic  and 
booking  and  enquiries  were  coming  in  from  all  over  the 
country.  Moreover,  a  New  York  agent  was  in  town, 
staying  at  the  Savoy,  and  had  written  to  Mr.  Pensiver 
for  an  appointment  to  discuss  business  in  connection 
with  "Barjelski."  Mrs.  Du  Casson  decided  to  see  how 
things  went  and  in  the  meantime  to  keep  a  sharp  look- 
out on  01  ga  herself.  All  her  movements  were  checked 
and  when  she  went  out  for  a  walk,  she  was  always  ac- 
companied by  a  maid  in  addition  to  the  little  dogs. 
Olga  was  instantly  aware  of  this  change  of  attitude,  and 
she  determined  to  deal  with  the  matter  in  her  own  way. 


162  OLGA  BARDEL 

On  the  following  Wednesday  she  started  out  with  the 
maid  and  the  little  dogs,  and  when  they  got  to  the 
corner  of  Great  Portland  Street  she  suddenly  said, 

"I  have  to  go  down  to  Conduit  Street  to  order  some 
music,  Emma,  so  I  shall  have  to  leave  you.  I  shall  be 
back  about  five,"  and  without  giving  the  maid  any  op- 
portunity of  repeating  any  instructions  she  may  have 
received  she  jumped  into  a  'bus  and  disappeared. 

She  found  Mr.  Casewell  awaiting  her  and  a  tea  had 
been  prepared.  They  grinned  at  each  other  and  he  said, 
"Well?" 

"Isn't  it  a  ripping  day!"  said  Olga.  "Now  tell  me 
how  I  ought  to  have  played  the  slow  movement." 

She  was  in  a  great  hurry  and  devoured  everything  he 
told  her.  It  was  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty  he 
could  get  her  to  take  any  interest  in  the  tea  that  he  had 
taken  such  elaborate  pains  to  prepare.  He  enjoyed 
talking  to  her  and  teaching  her.  She  grasped  ideas  in 
a  flash.  Her  mental  virility  excited  him.  They  be- 
came conscious  of  nothing  but  the  lofty  claims  of  the 
muse  they  worshiped.  Suddenly  Mr.  Casewell  glanced 
at  the  clock.     It  was  half-past  five. 

"You  must  go,  my  dear,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

When  Olga  realized  the  time,  she  started. 

"It  's  been  awfully  good  of  you,"  she  said  and  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"It  's  been  a  delightful  pleasure  to  me,"  said  Mr. 
Casewell.  "Come  again  next  Wednesday,  or  when  you 
can —     Only  let  me  know — I  '11  always  arrange  it." 

When  she  returned  to  Chessle  Terrace,  Mrs.  Du  Cas- 
son  was  walking  up  and  down  the  hall.  She  looked  at 
Olga  suspiciously. 


THE  TWO  METHODS  163 

*'0h!"  she  said.  "It  seems  to  take  some  time  to 
walk  down  to  Conduit  Street." 

"Yes,"  answered  Olga  nonchalantly;  "I  went  for  a 
stroll  afterwards  down  Regent  Street  and  Piccadilly. 
It  's  a  perfect  day,  is  n  't  it  ? " 

"Lying  as  well  as  stealing!"  thought  Mrs.  Du  Cas- 
son.  "What  can  you  expect  from  a  slum  child?  I 
hope  to  goodness  the  American  tour  comes  off.  After 
that  she  can  go  to  the  devil!"  Out  loud  she  said — 
"Well,  you  had  better  change  your  shoes,  dear.  Mr. 
Du  Casson  is  expecting  you  up-stairs.  The  appointment 
for  your  lesson  was  five,  you  know ! ' ' 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Olga  had  forgotten  this,  and  she 
got  out  of  it  on  this  occasion  by  pleading  a  sudden  and 
unaccountable  headache.  Mrs.  Du  Casson  said  it  was 
undoubtedly  due  to  strolling  about  looking  in  shop  win- 
dows. In  future  she  had  better  take  her  walks  in  the 
park. 

During  the  next  three  months  Olga,  by  all  sorts  of 
cunning  tricks,  managed  to  visit  Mr.  Casewell  on  an 
average  once  a  week,  not  knowing  that  during  a  part  of 
that  time  her  visits  were  observed  and  noted  by  a 
private  detective.  The  more  often  she  visited  Mr.  Case- 
well,  the  more  agonizing  did  her  lessons  become  with 
Mr.  Du  Casson.  She  became  more  and  more  argumen- 
tative with  him,  and  then  reverted  to  a  sort  of  sullen  in- 
difference in  which  she  ignored  what  he  said. 

When  the  Du  Cassons  discovered  what  was  happen- 
ing— that  she  was  visiting  I\Ir.  Casewell  on  the  quiet 
and  having  lessons  from  him — they  were  at  a  loss  to 
know  what  to  do.  The  point  that  disturbed  them 
was —    Wlio    was    paying    Mr.    Casewell 's    fees?     Im- 


164  OLGA  BARDEL 

mediately  they  saw  the  hand  of  Uncle  Grubhofer,  The 
dark  villain  of  the  piece  had  some  diabolical  plot  on  in 
conjunction  with  the  hirelmg  of  the  Levitch  school  to 
get  control  of  the  child  or  claim  the  credit  of  her  train- 
ing. How  the  Levitch  crowd  would  love  to  call  her  one 
of  the  "Levitch  pupils!"  There  was  nothing  Mr.  Du 
Casson  so  despised  and  condemned  as  the  "Levitch 
method,"  partly  because  he  had  been  instructed  in  a 
different  and  more  old-fashioned  method,  and  princi- 
pally because  he  found  that  people  were  asking  for  and 
insisting  on  the  "Levitch  method,"  and  all  the  most 
promising  pupils  and  young  artists  were  disciples  of 
the  Levitch  school. 

Mr.  Du  Casson  was  intensely  angry.  "The  girl  's  a 
little  devil !"  he  shouted  to  his  wife  one  morning  in  the 
bathroom,  "I  've  taught  her  everything,  everything ! 
and  now  she  turns  on  me,  sneaks  over  to  the  Levitch 
crowd  behind  my  back.  Insults  me  when  I  talk  to  her. 
She  can  go  to  blazes!  I  'm  not  going  to  do  any  more 
for  her." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Mrs.  Du  Casson.  "What 
does  it  matter  what  they  teach  her?  You  've  had  the 
credit  of  her  bringing  out.  They  can't  call  her  a 
'Levitch  pupil'  after  she  's  been  playing  for  a  year  as 
a  'pupil  of  Du  Casson.'  I  don't  see  that  this  matters. 
The  thing  is  to  keep  a  hold  over  her  till  after  the  Ameri- 
can tour.  Thank  heaven  it  comes  off  in  the  autumn ! 
Pensiver  's  booked  her  from  September  29th.  We 
mustn't  have  a  row  now,  whatever  happens,  especially 
after  having  to  just  fork  out  five  hundred  pounds  guar- 
antee to  Johanson  in  New  York." 

And  so  the  Du  Cassons  winked  at  Olga's  secret  visits 


THE  TWO  METHODS  165 

to  Mr.  Casewell,  and  ^Ir.  Du  Casson  attempted  no  moro 
with  her  than  formal  lessons,  just  listening  to  her  play, 
and  at  times  nursing  an  ironic  resentment  that  in  spite 
of  his  passivity  she  was  improving  wonderfully ! 

Olga  led  a  very  busy  and  disturbing  life.  Two  or 
three  days  a  week  on  an  average  she  had  to  travel  to 
various  towns  in  the  country  to  play  at  concerts  or  to 
give  recitals.  On  these  occasions  she  was  always  ac- 
companied by  either  Mr,  or  Mrs.  Du  Casson  or  a  maid. 
In  the  meantime  she  had  to  practise.  The  meetings 
with  ]\Ir.  Casewell  made  a  tremendous  difference  to  her 
and  spurred  her  with  new  hopes  and  ambitions.  She 
was  surprised  that  during  this  time  nothing  was  seen 
or  heard  of  Uncle  Grubbofer,  and  consequently  she 
could  not  get  to  hear  anything  of  Irene.  She  even  got 
]\Ir.  Casewell  to  go  on  a  wild  goose  chase  to  the  village 
of  *'Larn-shan"  one  Sunday,  but  he  returned  to  say 
that  the  cottage  she  described  was  shut  up,  and  he  heard 
from  a  local  general  shop  that  the  "young  lady  had  left 
there  some  months  ago."  This  was  very  disturbing, 
and  she  determined  to  make  another  visit  to  her  uncle 
at  the  first  opportunity.  It  was  some  time  before  she 
found  such  an  opportunity  and  when  she  did,  to  her 
surprise,  she  discovered  that  Uncle  Grubbofer 's  new 
shop  was  occupied  by  a  ham  and  beef  merchant,  who 
could  give  her  no  information  of  the  former  tenant's 
whereabouts.  She  wont  back  to  the  old  street,  but  on 
this  occasion  was  nearly  assaulted  by  the  same  woman 
who  had  opened  the  door  before. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   LANTERN 

IN  the  spring  Levitch  came  to  London,  and  on  a 
certain  afternoon  Mr.  Casewell  took  Olga  to  play 
to  him.  It  was  an  entrancing  experience.  The 
little  man  had  not  forgotten  her,  and  he  was  astounded 
at  the  progress  she  had  made;  nevertheless  he  was  dis- 
turbed by  some  of  her  tricks,  and  the  stiffness  she  had 
acquired  under  the  Du  Casson  tuition.  Mr.  Casewell 
explained  the  situation  as  well  as  he  could.  Levitch 
nodded  his  bald  head  in  rapid  little  jerks,  and  ejacu- 
lated, '  *  Ah !  yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  ah ! "  He  looked  at 
Olga  meditatively  and  then  he  suddenly  stroked  her  hair 
and  said: 

"Ah!  Come  now,  what  is  it  they  do  to  you?"  He 
took  her  forearm.  She  had  just  played  a  passage  from 
a  Beethoven  minuet  with  remarkable  brilliance,  and  an 
even  more  remarkable  flourish.  "Now!  Gif  me  bote 
your  arms.  .  .  .  Now,  vat  is  it  you  call  eet  ?  R-re-lax ! 
No!  See,  you  are  pulling  me!  Re-re-lax!  Now!  I 
vant  you  to  fall  trough  de  zeat,  so!"  He  took  hold 
of  one  of  her  knees.  "No,  here  you  see,  you  vas  all 
tight !  Fall,  fall,  be  nozing,  so !  Ah !  now,  dat  is  better 
— tranquil,  isn't  it?  Forget  all  dees," — he  waved 
his  short  arms  at  the  keys — "they  vas  nozing. 
Tink !     I  am  Olga !     Olga !     Olga !     What  eet  ees  I  vant 

166 


THE  LASjTERN  167 

to  do?  Tink  dat.  Begin  all  again.  Forget  all  dees 
tings.  Tink.  Now  it  is  the  music.  Tink!  It  ees  ver' 
beautiful,  ees  n't  eet?  dees  passages.  Eet  ees  Beethoven, 
echt  Beethoven !  Tink !  I  vill  play  de  beautiful  pas- 
sages just  tranquil,  just  as  I  know.  Neffer  mind  dese!" 
And  he  swept  his  arm  round  the  room  as  though  in- 
dicating an  audience.     "Now,  Olga,  play  me  again!" 

Olga  played  the  passage  again.  She  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  understand  his  language,  she  had  never  heard 
any  one  else  speak  like  that,  but  the  meaning  was  clear, 
and  a  curious  sense  of  repose  stole  over  her.  With  little 
gestures  and  exclamations  Levitch  helped  her  to  see 
the  sense  of  a  phrase,  and  to  keep  the  balance  of  the 
whole.  It  was  very  absorbing.  She  had  never  met 
any  one  before  like  Levitch,  with  just  that  strange, 
magnetic  power.  IMr.  Casewell,  she  believed  in;  she 
was  conscious  of  his  sanity  and  equipoise  and  a  certain 
intellectual  fervor,  but  with  Levitch  it  was  somehow 
different.  She  was  at  once  transplanted  to  a  higher 
sphere,  and  for  the  first  time  tasted  the  alluring  sweets 
of  hero-worship.  The  little  man  became  to  her  a  god, 
a  person  who  held  all  the  secrets  that  she  would  ever 
want  to  know.  She  thought  of  him  day  and  night  and 
hung  on  every  word  he  said.  He  was,  too,  so  surprising, 
so  full  of  strange  directions,  a  mixture  of  mysticism 
and  sound,  material  common  sense,  and  his  dark  eyes 
had  that  faculty  of  mellowing  his  stern  discussion  with 
a  most  engaging  smile.  Before  she  went  he  asked  her 
questions  about  her  digestion,  even  examined  the  quality 
of  her  dress  material.  At  one  moment  he  solemnly 
patted  her  forearm,  and  said,  "Nice  fat  arm!  that  ees 
goot!"     She  could  tell  by  the  way  ho  nodded  his  head 


168  OLGA  BARDEt 

and  said  this  that,  although  it  was  said  a  little  facetiously, 
he  was  really  pleased  that  she  had  a  nice  fat  arm,  and 
he  considered  it  a  valuable  asset  to  her  career. 

To  her  joy  Levitch  agreed  with  Mr.  Casewell  that  he 
would  hear  her  once  a  fortnight  while  he  was  in  town. 
That  was  a  glorious  summer  to  Olga.  She  still  had  to 
travel  about  and  play  where  she  was  told,  but  she  felt 
more  confident  of  herself  and  the  advent  of  Levitch  had 
opened  up  a  new  world  to  her.  She  was  still  haunted 
by  the  idea  that  Uncle  Grubhofer  would  appear  at 
some  terrible  moment  and  snatch  this  new-born  joy 
from  her,  and  she  was  worried  about  Irene.  Once  she 
asked  Mrs.  Du  Casson  if  she  could  find  out  anything 
about  her  sister,  but  that  lady  replied  that  she  hadn't 
the  faintest  idea  where  any  of  the  family  were,  and  she 
did  not  seem  disposed  to  exert  herself  in  the  matter. 
Olga  was  young,  and  had  that  enviable  quality  of  being 
able  constantly  to  renew  herself.  Her  affection  for 
Irene  did  not  absorb  her  life,  it  only  impressed  her  in 
little  waves,  and  then  in  the  form  of  a  wondering  pity. 
She  pictured  Irene  in  all  sorts  of  trouble  and  distress, 
and  also  Karl  and  Montague.  But  these  visions  usually 
came  to  her  when  she  was  tired  or  when  things  had  gone 
wrong.  Half  an  hour  later  she  would  be  walking  in  the 
sunshine,  inhaling  new  impressions,  conscious  of  the 
vibrant  life  in  her.  There  was  a  little  girl,  a  pupil  of 
Mr.  Casewell 's,  who  also  visited  Levitch,  and  whom  she 
often  met,  and  made  a  friend  of.  She  was  a  slight  little 
thing,  surprisingly  fair,  with  very  clear  skin  and  gray- 
blue  eyes.  Her  name  was  Emma  Fittleworth.  She 
seemed  to  take  a  great  fancy  to  Olga,  and  could  not 
take  her  eyes  from  her  when  they  were  in  the  room 


THE  LANTERN  169 

together.     She  always  came  to  the  lessons  in  a  large 
motor  car,  attended  by  a  maid  or  by  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Fittleworth  was  a  plump,  middle-aged  American 
woman  who  had  married  a  young  Englishman.  The 
marriage  had  not  been  a  success,  she  had  divorced  her 
husband,  who  had  since  died.  She  had  two  little  girls — 
of  whom  Emma  was  the  elder — and  she  lavished  on  these 
children  an  adoring  affection,  tempered  by  a  sort  of 
mild  surprise  that  they  were  so  unlike  herself.  They 
were  both  very  slight  and  fair,  and  almost  ethereal, 
whilst  ]\Irs.  Fittleworth  was  a  broad,  solid  woman  with 
a  kind  but  capable  face,  upon  which  the  traces  of  un- 
happiness  had  set  their  seal.  She  had  brown,  pensive 
eyes,  and  she  spoke  in  a  deep,  purring  voice  that  was 
only  relieved  from  monotony  by  a  pleasant  burr,  and  an 
occasional  upward  inflection  that  gave  it  a  peculiar  at- 
traction. It  was  her  voice  that  first  attracted  Olga, 
and  then  afterwards  she  found  everything  about  her 
attractive.  She  felt  ''comfortable"  in  her  presence, 
and  she  noticed  that  ^Irs.  Fittleworth  had  the  faculty 
of  imparting  this  sense  of  comfort  and  security  to  others. 
She  was  very  rich  and  they  lived  in  a  house  in  one  of 
the  large  squares,  but  it  was  not  this  that  made  one  feel 
comfortable.  It  was  just  some  inner  power  that  Mrs. 
Fittleworth  possessed.  Olga  could  not  conceive  her  be- 
ing any  different.  She  was  a  woman  who  would  know 
exactly  how  to  act  under  any  circumstances,  and  she 
would  not  be  disturbed  or  exasperated.  She  invited 
Olga  to  lunch,  and  on  the  strength  of  her  new  sense  of 
independence  she  accepted.  The  Du  Cassons  had  ceased 
to  check  her  movements,  and  were  only  satisfied  that  she 
did  not  fail  to  keep  her  engagements. 


1*70  OLGA  BARDEL. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  lunch  party,  just  the  four  of 
them,  Mrs.  Fittleworth,  Olga,  Emma,  and  the  younger 
sister,  Mollie,  who  was  only  eight.  After  lunch  they 
went  into  a  sort  of  schoolroom  and  talked,  and  Olga 
found  herself  telling  Mrs.  Fittleworth  all  sorts  of  things 
about  herself,  things  that  she  had  never  broached  to 
any  one.  She  told  her  about  her  family  and  Uncle 
Grubhofer  and  the  Du  Cassons  and  her  experiences  as 
an  infant  prodigy.  She  told  it  quite  simply,  and  Mrs. 
Fittleworth  listened  attentively  without  surprise  or  hor- 
ror, but  with  the  magic  light  of  understanding. 

She  found  in  the  society  of  Emma  and  Mollie  an  ele- 
ment she  had  not  encountered  before — fun.  They 
played  and  exchanged  confidences,  and  Mollie,  in  spite 
of  her  delicate  appearance  and  her  innumerable  toys, 
was  a  regular  tomboy,  and  a  joy  to  be  with.  The 
friendship  soon  ripened  between  these  girls,  and  they 
hated  the  days  when  they  were  apart.  They  also  shared 
in  common  the  mutual  worship  of  "Levitch  himself." 
As  the  summer  wore  on,  and  the  aspect  of  approaching 
separation  became  a  reality  to  them,  it  hung  like  the 
doom  of  all  things  above  their  heads. 

Olga's  American  tour  was  to  start  in  September,  and 
at  about  the  same  time  the  Fittleworths  were  going  to 
Prague,  so  that  Emma  could  continue  her  studies  with 
Levitch,  and  both  the  girls  study  German.  They  would 
remain  there  till  the  following  summer;  that  is  to  say, 
from  their  point  of  view,  forever. 

There  came  a  day  in  July  when  "Levitch  himself" 
went  back  to  Prague.  At  her  ]ast  lesson  he  said :  "You 
must  gom  vif  me  to  Prague,  yes?"  and  he  pinched  her 
cheek. 


THE  LANTERN  171 

lu  broken  accents,  Olga  explained  to  him  about  her 
American  tour.  The  little  man  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  said,  ' '  Ah,  zis  is  bat !  tch !  tch !  no,  no,  eet  ees 
bat!  .  .  .  one  day — yes!  but  now — ah,  no,  no!"  He 
seemed  very  distressed  about  the  matter  and  said  he 
must  speak  to  Mr.  Casewell,  This  gave  her  great  hope. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  any  opinion  that  Levitch  ex- 
pressed should  not  be  obeyed.  But  when  she  next  saw 
Mr.  Casewell,  he  dashed  her  hopes  to  the  ground. 

"My  dear  child,  I  'm  afraid  it  's  inevitable.  I  know 
as  a  fact  that  tliey  have  billed  and  booked  you  all  over 
the  States."  And  he  showed  her  a  New  York  musical 
journal  with  a  front  page  photo  of  her  in  the  Armenian 
dress,  and  three  columns  inside  which  purported  to  be 
an  interview!  During  the  interview  she  apparently 
had  again  given  a  description,  even  more  breathless,  of 
her  wonderful  escape  from  Turkey  in  the  basket  of 
* '  vegetable  produce. ' '  There  was  also  a  column  of  press 
cuttings  and  a  photograph  of  Professor  Du  Casson ! 

The  Fittleworths  left  London  at  the  end  of  July,  for 
Mrs.  Fittleworth  wanted  to  take  the  children  for  a 
month  to  a  manor  house  that  she  had  taken  on  the  Sus- 
sex Downs.  She  invited  Olga  to  come  and  stay  with 
them,  but  this  of  course  was  practically  impossible. 
The  Du  Cassons  did  not  even  know  of  Mrs.  Fittleworth, 
or  that  Olga  had  any  friends  outside  their  circle.  Olga 
explained  this  to  Mrs.  Fittleworth,  and  that  good  lady 
gave  the  matter  consideration,  and  then  boldly  drove 
up  to  Chessle  Terrace  in  her  carriage,  and  called  on  Mrs. 
Du  Casson.  It  was  an  imposing  equipage,  and  Mrs. 
Fittleworth  was  not  a  woman  to  be  put  off  or  ignored. 
^Irs.  Du  Casson  happened  to  see  it  from  her  window, 


172  OLGA  BARDEL 

and  she  liked  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  people  with 
carriages  like  that. 

Mrs.  Fittleworth  apologized  for  calling,  and  she  said 
she  was  afraid  Mrs.  Du  Casson  would  think  the  reason 
of  her  visit  a  little  strange.  She  understood  that  Mrs. 
Du  Casson  was  the  guardian  of  that  remarkable  little 
pianist,  Miss  Olga  Barjelski.  Well,  she  had  two  little 
girls  who  were  musical,  and  they  were  tremendous  ad- 
mirers of  Olga's.  They  always  went  to  hear  her  play 
when  possible,  and  on  several  occasions  they  had  been 
round  to  the  artists'  room,  and  spoken  to  her.  They 
had  taken  such  a  fancy  to  her  that  Mrs.  Fittleworth 
ventured  to  ask  if  she  might  possibly  go  so  far  as  to 
ask  permission  for  her  to  come  and  stay  with  them  at 
Rollminster  Manor,  near  Kailhurst  on  the  downs — for  a 
little  while  ?  It  would  be  so  extremely  kind  of  I\Irs.  Du 
Casson ! 

Mrs.  Du  Casson  was  surprised  and  unprepared.  She 
had  admired  the  car,  and  her  eye  wandered  over  Mrs. 
Fittleworth 's  costume.  It  was  amazingly  well  cut. 
Everything  about  her  was  unobtrusive,  but  undeniably 
the  best  and  the  most  expensive.  This  was  not  a  woman 
to  be  snubbed.  Mrs.  Du  Casson  prevaricated.  She  said 
it  was  very  kind  of  Mrs.  Fittleworth ;  of  course  she  could 
do  nothing  without  consulting  the  professor.  lie  was 
out.  Olga  would  have  to  practise  hard  for  the  Ameri- 
can tour.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they — she  and  Mr.  Du 
Cason — had  thought  of  going  to  Bournemouth,  and  of 
course  they  would  take  Olga,  but  she  would  see  and 
write  Mrs.  Fittleworth  later.  She  thanked  her  and 
shook  hands.  Two  days  later,  however,  she  wrote  to 
say  that  "the  Professor  thought  it  would  not  be  ad- 


THE  LANTERN  173 

visable  to  interrupt  Olga's  studies,  and  the  child  would 
go  to  Bournemouth  with  them  and  propare  for  her  great 
undertaking." 

"When  the  Fittleworths  had  taken  their  departure,  and 
Olga  realized  that  she  was  not  to  see  them  again,  a  great 
depression  came  over  her.  It  was  a  very  hot  August 
and  she  was  suffering  from  a  nervous  reaction  from  the 
excitement  of  the  previous  months.  Moreover,  Bourne- 
mouth did  not  agree  with  her.  She  felt  phlegmatic  and 
disinclined  to  work.  They  stayed  at  a  fashionable  hotel 
among  some  pine  trees,  and  she  was  given  a  small  room 
with  a  piano  in  it  where  she  was  to  work  *'in  any  case 
in  the  afternoon  and  till  dinner  time."  It  was  a 
wretched  hotel,  full  of  rich  disagreeable-looking  people. 
She  felt  suddenly  imprisoned.  Everj'thing  of  value 
seemed  to  have  gone  in  that  hotel.  She  saw  the  hideous 
perspective  of  her  future  epitomized  in  its  cabined  walls 
and  customs.  The  arbitrary  arrangement  of  its  set 
meals,  the  tyranny  of  its  servants,  its  conventional 
flower  beds  and  promenades,  the  hopeless  dullness  of  its 
guests  casting  furtive  glances  at  each  other,  and  droning 
in  self-conscious  reiteration  safe  sayings  for  each  other's 
ears.  She  sat  opposite  the  smug  Du  Cassons  still  sur- 
rounded by  the  horrid  little  dogs.  This  was  their  ele- 
ment. This  was  where  they  wanted  her  to  stop — in  this 
world,  to  be  a  success  in  it,  the  wonderful  child  pianist! 
There  would  follow  an  endless  amount  of  this,  more 
hotels,  trains,  concerts,  and  the  inevitable  reclame,  pos- 
ters, advertisements,  puffs,  more  success,  more  hotels, 
newspaper  interviews,  steamships,  agents,  managers,  and 
then  again  hotels,  hotels,  hotels ! 

She  lost  her  appetite  and  went  for  walks  by  herself. 


174  OLGA  BARDEL 

But  she  could  not  get  away  from  the  town.  She  walked 
for  miles  till  she  was  footsore,  but  nothing  relieved  the 
pines  but  the  interminable  new  houses,  the  pensions, 
the  asphalt  promenades.  Everything  about  Olga  was 
premature.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  she  had  encompassed 
many  of  the  experiences  of  a  woman  twice  her  age.  Her 
mind  was  quite  untrained  except  musically,  but  she  had 
keen  intuitions  and  an  unnerring  sense  that  was  almost 
psychic.  She  lay  awake  in  bed  one  night  and  heard 
the  drone  of  the  electric  lift.  It  filled  her  with  a  strange 
repugnance.  JMoreover,  the  sound  kept  converging  into 
a  musical  phrase  repeated  over  and  over  again.  It  sud- 
denly seemed  to  cleave  the  forces  that  acted  on  her  life 
into  two  bold  groups.  On  the  one  hand  stood  the  Du 
Cassons  and  Mr.  Pensiver  and  the  people  they  repre- 
sented who  wanted  just  that,  the  drone  of  that  phrase 
repeated  and  repeated  and  repeated.  On  the  other 
hand,  somewhere  out  there  beyond  the  pines,  the  wind 
was  blowing  across  the  downs  making  unfinished  sym- 
phonies, breaking  free  like  the  laughter  of  those  chil- 
dren ;  somewhere  out  there  beyond  the  seas  Levitch  was 
striving  "to  think  all  over  again."  He  too  was  like  a 
child.  He  had  that  attitude  of  amazed  delight  at  the 
never-ending  discovery  of  new  joys.  She  wanted  to  be 
like  that.  It  seemed  a  thing  more  worth  fighting  for 
than  anything  in  the  world.  She  was  annoyed  that  she 
could  not  define  it  to  herself  more  clearly.  She  could 
only  feel  it.  It  was  something  that  they  represented — 
these  others — freedom  perhaps  and  a  sense  that  some 
things  counted  more  than  success. 

For  the   rest  of  that  week   she   was  so  moody  and 
apathetic  that  the  Du  Cassons  were  a  little  alarmed. 


THE  LANTERN  175 

They  took  her  for  motor  rides,  and  eventually  consulted 
a  doctor.  The  doctor  said  she  was  "a  little  run  down" 
and  prescribed  her  a  tonic,  and  she  was  given  the  tip 
that  she  had  better  not  practise  for  a  few  days.  On 
the  Saturday  week  following  Mr.  Pensiver  came  do\vii 
for  the  week-end.  He  seemed  in  good  spirits.  After 
dinner  that  evening  at  an  hour  when  she  should  have 
been  in  bed  she  snuggled  in  a  corner  of  the  veranda 
where  none  of  the  hotel  people  would  be  likely  to  see 
her.  After  a  time  the  Du  Cassons  and  Mr.  Pensiver 
came  out  and  sat  at  a  table  in  the  dark  and  talked  and 
smoked.  They  had  dined  well,  and  were  a  little  garru- 
lous. She  overheard  some  interesting  information.  It 
appears  that  the  tour  was  to  last  five  months  through 
the  States  and  Canada,  that  the  bookings  already  totalled 
over  eight  thousand  pounds,  that  business  had  been  so 
brisk  that  they  had  to  advance  Johanson  of  New  York 
another  five  hundred  pounds  on  advertising  "and  it  was 
worth  it."  That  Mrs.  Du  Casson  had  had  six  of  the 
Armenian  frocks  made,  as  traveling  over  there  ''was  so 
disastrous  to  one's  clothes."  That  they  were  all  com- 
ing to  New  York,  and  would  visit  some  of  the  principal 
cities,  but  that  a  "very  reliable  person  named  Miss 
l\IcHarness  would  act  as  cicerone  and  maid  to  the  child 
for  the  tour."  That  they  were  all  returning  to  London 
on  Tuesday,  and  would  sail  for  New  York  on  the  follow- 
ing Saturday. 

All  of  which  information  did  not  tend  to  raise  her 
spirits.  She  felt  a  steel  ring  closing  round  her.  In 
spite  of  the  doctor's  tonic  she  became  paler  and  she  slept 
badly.  The  Du  Cassons  noted  this,  but  they  said,  "The 
voyage  will  put  her  right." 


176  OLGA  BARDEIj 

On  the  return  to  town  they  were  all  very  busy  shop- 
ping and  packing.  Special  iron-bound  trunks  arrived 
on  which  appeared  in  white  letters  "Olga  Barjelski," 
and  gaudy  labels  bedecked  the  sides.  In  the  midst  of 
the  commotion  Miss  McHarness  appeared.  She  was  a 
Scotch- American  woman  with  a  hard,  monotonous,  pene- 
trating voice.  She  had  come  through  from  Paris,  and 
immediately  took  charge  of  all  Olga's  property  and  per- 
son. She  was  undoubtedly  a  very  capable  and  energetic 
cicerone,  honest  and  keen,  probably  kind  and  sensible, 
but,  thought  Olga,  "I  shall  have  to  listen  to  that  voice 
all  day  every  day  for  five  months." 

It  was  a  remarkable  voice;  it  had  the  faculty  of 
crashing  above  the  din  of  the  little  dogs;  one  could 
imagine  it  in  a  noisy  station  or  on  a  windy  steamer 
making  insistent  demands.  It  would  not  be  denied. 
It  seemed  a  special  by-product  of  the  telephone  age.  By 
the  Wednesday  evening  Olga  felt  that  it  would  be  the 
most  terrifying  adjunct  of  the  terrifying  tour.  She  felt 
that  she  could  no  longer  stand  it.  Her  nerves  were  on 
edge  before  it  arrived,  and  it  seemed  to  bring  all  her 
half -formed  resolutions  to  a  head.  "I  won't  go,"  she 
said  to  herself  as  she  retired  to  her  room  that  night. 
She  had  not  the  vaguest  idea  of  how  she  was  to  accom- 
plish her  perverse  decision.  She  presumed  that  if  she 
refused  they  would  fetch  policemen,  and  she  would  be 
dragged  off  to  the  steamer.  She  moved  feverishly  in 
her  bed  all  night,  hugging  rebellious  impulses.  In  the 
morning  she  seemed  steadier.  Her  face  had  a  set,  re- 
signed expression.  She  assisted  in  the  packing,  and 
much  to  Mrs.  Du  Casson's  surprise  she  offered  to  go 


THE  LANTERN  177 

aud  get  some  small  purchases  for  her  early  in  the  after- 
noon. 

Mrs.  Du  Casson  was  quite  disarmed,  and  thanked  her 
for  offering.  She  wrote  down  one  or  two  precise  in- 
structions, and  gave  her  a  sovereign.  Olga  put  on  her 
hat  and  taking  a  small  black  reticule  she  walked  out  of 
the  house.  Mrs.  Du  Casson  would  not  perhaps  have 
been  quite  so  delighted  with  her  protegee's  change  of 
front  if  she  had  kuo\\Ti  that  she  never  intended  to  re- 
turn! She  took  a  'bus  to  Victoria  Station  and  went 
into  the  bookiug-oflfice. 

"I  want  a  ticket  to  Kailhurst  on  the  Sussex  Downs," 
she  said. 

The  booking  clerk  looked  at  her.  "There  's  no  such 
station,"  he  said;  then  noting  the  expression  of  chagrin 
on  her  face,  some  sympathetic  chord  in  him  was  stirred, 
and  he  added,  "Wait  a  minute."     He  examined  a  map. 

"You  had  better  book  to  Cloton,"  he  said;  "it  's  nine 
miles  from  there." 

She  thanked  him  and  bought  the  ticket.  She  had  to 
wait  forty  minutes  for  a  train  and  it  was  six  o'clock 
when  she  arrived  at  Cloton.  She  was  tired  and  hungry 
when  she  got  there,  but  it  was  with  a  strange  feeling  of 
exhilaration  that  she  gave  up  her  ticket  aud  passed 
through  the  barrier  into  a  free  world.  Cloton  was  a 
sleepy  old  market  town,  and  the  people  of  whom  she 
asked  the  way  to  Kailhurst  seemed  to  think  it  was  an 
incredible  distance,  like  an  expedition  to  some  remote 
and  unexplored  land. 

"You  might  get  old  George  Plar-r-way  to  drive  'e," 
one  suggested  rather  skeptically.     But  "George  Har-r- 


178  OLGA  BARDEL 

way"  shook  his  head  and  said  he  might  manage  it  to- 
morrow, but  he  would  want  "fourteen  shillun."  As 
Olga  had  only  eleven  shillings  and  some  coppers  she 
started  to  do  what  she  had  secretly  hoped  she  would 
have  to  do  all  the  time — walk  there.  She  got  the  direc- 
tion verified  by  several  of  the  inhabitants  and  started 
out. 

When  she  was  quite  free  of  the  town  she  felt  tremen- 
dously excited.  The  rhythmic  action  of  walking  and  the 
sea-laden  air  soothed  her  spirits.  The  white  road  looked 
like  a  ribbon  binding  the  sinuous  lines  of  the  downs. 
She  walked  past  isolated  houses  and  then  out  to  the 
open  country,  past  chalk  pits  and  groups  of  friendly 
trees  which  nodded  to  her  as  though  approving  of  her 
action.  Here  and  there  smoke  from  some  dreamy  ham- 
let revealed  its  hiding  place  in  the  gray  seclusion  of  the 
hills.  Sheep  bells  tinkled  pleasantly  in  her  ears,  and 
birds  sang  overhead.  She  walked  on  and  on.  It  was 
certainly  going  to  be  a  long  way,  and  she  rather  wished 
she  were  not  so  tired,  but  it  was  very  beautiful,  very 
beautiful  and  soothing.  A  flock  of  rooks  rising  from  a 
clover  field  struck  a  plaintive  note.  They  made  her 
sigh  a  little  and  think,  and  she  did  not  want  to  think  too 
much.  She  knew  she  was  doing  something  terrible  and 
punishable,  but  the  impulses  which  drove  her  along 
seemed  apart  from  right  or  wrong,  something  tremen- 
dous that  she  could  not  comprehend.  She  felt  very  tired. 
She  wished  she  had  thought  to  have  some  tea  some- 
where— perhaps  she  would  get  some  in  the  next  village. 
She  wondered  what  time  it  got  dark.  She  must  get 
there  before  dark,  or  she  might  not  find  her  way  and 
she  would  be  frightened.     She  walked  faster. 


THE  LANTERN  179 

At  the  next  village  a  woman  iu  a  shop  told  her  she  had 
come  out  of  her  way.  She  ought  to  have  *' taken  the 
road  by  Bayes  farm  and  kept  along  the  valley  way  over 
at  Paseby-Coudhurst."  She  bought  some  buns,  and 
retraced  her  steps.  The  sun  set  as  she  passed  the  bend 
in  the  downs  that  led  from  Paseby-Coudhurst  towards 
Milcester.  They  told  her  that  Kailhurst  was  "five 
mile  from  there,  six  may-be  or  six  a  ha-a-af  mile,"  some 
said.  Her  legs  ached  and  her  shoes  were  not  con- 
structed for  country  walks.  They  were  intended  for 
promenading  the  deck  of  an  ocean  liner.  She  began  to 
walk  more  slowly,  and  to  pause  and  rest  against  stiles. 
A  wind  got  up  and  blew  thin  white  clouds  that  melted 
into  gray  distances.  She  felt  warm  with  walking,  and 
yet  sometimes  she  shivered  slightly  when  she  stopped. 
Things  began  to  lose  their  form  somewhat  and  there 
seemed  little  left  but  the  white  road  in  a  dim  setting, 
and  the  hurrying  sky  above.  Past  Milcester  the  road 
led  up  and  up.  She  went  by  a  disused  chalk  pit  that 
looked  very  solemn  in  the  dull  light.  The  road  became 
little  more  than  a  track  after  that  and  she  seemed  right 
up  in  the  clouds.  Their  moist  density  obscured  the 
sheep,  but  she  knew  they  were  all  around  her  by  their 
bells  which  tinkled  in  a  variety  of  keys.  A  little  way 
off  the  track  she  saw  a  figure  dimly  silhouetted  against 
the  sky.  She  made  a  sudden  resolution,  and  walked 
over  to  it.  He  was  a  shepherd  in  a  smock  exactly  as  she 
had  seen  in  a  story  book  at  IMiss  jNIerson's. 

"\Yill  you  kindly  tell  me  if  I  am  on  the  right  road 
for  Kailhurst,  sir,"  she  asked. 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  a  detached,  far-away  ex- 
pression.    He  seemed  an  incredibly  old  man;  his  face 


180  OLGA  BARDEL 

was  cracked  and  lined,  as  though  battered  by  life-long 
struggle  with  the  wind  and  sun,  and  his  small  eyes  were 
glistening  but  unresponsive.  He  spoke  in  a  high  reedy 
voice  like  a  call  coming  to  her  through  the  centuries. 
He  was  like  a  man  to  whom  anything  that  could  happen 
had  happened  long  ago  and  passed  beyond,  but  he  still 
haunted  the  husk  of  his  bod}^  and  shouted  into  the  wind, 
because  Nature  wanted  him  there,  in  that  obscure  corner 
of  the  downs,  for  the  reason  that  she  could  not  find  a 
substitute. 

She  repeated  her  request,  and  he  peered  obliquely 
down  the  road,  leaning  on  his  staff.  After  a  long  silence 
he  said  in  his  thin  voice,  ''Ay  .  .  .  th'  be  beyond  .  .  . 
do  'e  know  ole  Dave  Tar-r-by,  leddy,  way  over  t'  down 
yan  Nan  Car-r-sway's  far-rm?" 

She  could  not  understand  what  he  said,  but  she  real- 
ized that  he  was  asking  her  a  question,  and  so  she  shook 
her  head  and  tried  to  smile. 

The  old  shepherd  leaned  forward  on  his  stick  and 
gave  a  long  call  that  sounded  like,  "Coom  .  .  .  by  .  .  ." 
There  was  a  movement  among  the  sheep,  as  though  this 
conveyed  some  definite  message.  After  a  pause  he  said, 
*'Ay,  oil  t'  ole  sheep  know  me,  young  leddy.  I  karls  'un 
and  they  com'  to  'e.  I  moind  t'  time  when  me  an'  ole 
Dave  Tar-r-by,  way  over  a'  Cou'rst,  drive  'un  tew  score 
yews  o'  Squire  Garfey  roight  along  o'  lees  where  be 
now  Mel'ster.  Ay  .  .  ."  He  sighed  as  though  medi- 
tating on  the  ravages  of  time  that  had  in  the  course  of 
threescore  years  converted  a  pleasant  meadow  into  a 
thriving  village.     Then  he  continued : 

"I  moind  the  toime  when  'is  b'ys  growed.  Tom  Tar- 
r-by    'e  were   away   at  t'  great  war    .  .  .  'e  was  for 


THE  LANTERN  181 

foightin'  against  t'  Roosians.  Ay,  'e  were  killed  out 
there,  'e  were  shot  .  .  .  that  were  nigh  sixty  year.  .  .  . 
Old  Dave  still  dra'es  breath.  The  Lard  preserves  'un 
agenst  's  good  toime.  .  .  .  Ay."  He  looked  at  Olga 
with  his  clear  abstract  eye,  and  added,  "T'  Lard  giveth 
and  t'  Lard  taketh  aw^ay." 

It  was  impressive  the  sense  of  unlimited  time  and 
space  that  the  old  man  seemed  to  convey  as  he  sat  there 
among  salt-bitten  slabs  of  rock,  and  the  bleating  sheep, 
and  it  occurred  to  her  that  he  was  the  first  person  she 
had  ever  met  who  talked  of  God. 

"Have  you  tended  sheep  here  for  sixty  years?"  she 
asked  at  last.  A  considerable  time  elapsed  while  this 
question  apparently  sank  in,  and  then  the  voice  called 
out  across  the  mists  of  time. 

"I  h'arded  fowerscore  long  o'  John  Ma-a-son  when  'e 
'eld  t'  ole  far-r-m  by  Nan  Car-r-sways.  Ay,  but  'e 
did  n'  bide  there — 'e  were  af  t'  be'yond  St'enham."  He 
waved  his  hand  contemptuously  as  though  any  one  who 
went  beyond  the  ridge  of  the  downs  showed  a  lack  of 
moral  stability.  It  was  getting  dark,  and  Olga  repeated 
her  request  for  the  direction  to  Kailhurst. 

**Ay,"  he  answered,  nodding  his  head,  "I  be  tcllin' 
'e.  Ef  a  tek  t'  track  yonder,  by  yon  ellums,  a  meks  t' 
road  under  t'  lea  of  Scuddy's  cuttin'.  Tha'  meks  be- 
yon'  there  the  len  b'  ole  Dave  Tar-r-by's  cottage.  'T' 
nowt  mowr  beyon'  nor  an  hour's  steppin'  to  Laffy's 
mill-stream.  Ole  Jane  Hale  ef  she  be  by  '11  p'int  ye 
t'  way  by  Chane." 

"I  see,"  said  Olga  faintly.  "Thank  you  very  much. 
It  's  a  manor  house  I  want  called  Rollmiuster.  A  Mrs. 
Fittle worth  lives  there." 


182  OLGA  BARDEL 

But  the  old  shepherd  who  apparently  looked  upon  this 
last  statement  as  a  sort  of  frivolous  digression,  unworthy 
of  the  attention  of  one  who  gives  his  life  to  permanent 
things,  merely  nodded  and  said  "Ay." 

Olga  had  been  able  to  make  out  very  little  of  what  he 
had  said,  but  she  got  a  sense  of  direction  from  his  ges- 
tures, and  she  gathered  that  somewhere  at  any  rate  was 
"an  hour's  steppin'  "  to  somewhere  else  and  even  that 
was    not    Kailhurst!     Her    heart   sank    within    her   as 
she  stumbled  along  the  track.     A  fine  rain  began  to 
drive  in  cold  gusts,  and  penetrated  her  stockings.     She 
set  her  teeth,  and  kept  her  eyes  on  the  lookout  for 
lighted  buildings.     She  would  not  let  herself  be  afraid 
of  the  darkness,  but  she  wished  she  were  not  so  tired, 
and  that  the  strange  shivering  did  not  keep  assailing 
her.     It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  she  reached  a  village, 
and  then  she  was  told  that  it  was  two  miles  farther  on 
to  Kailhurst.     She  forced  back  the  desire  to  cry  and 
once  more  set  out  into  the  darkness.     It  was  very  dark 
now,  and  she  was  wet  through  to  the  skin.     Between 
an  avenue  of  trees  she  could  see  nothing.     She  groped 
her  way,  trying  to  keep  to  the  middle  of  the  road  by 
looking  up  at  the  tree  tops,  but  even  then  she  slipped 
and  stumbled,  and  once  fell  into  something  soft  and 
slushy.     "When  she  got  through  this  avenue,   and  the 
road  became  a  little  lighter,  she  was  trembling  all  over. 
"I   mustn't   faint,"  she  kept  saying  to   herself,   and 
made  a  desperate  effort  to  hurry.     But  at  times  the  road 
seemed  to  be  behaving  in  a  peculiar  way,  twisting  about, 
and  going  sideways,  and  rocking.     She  went  on  and  on 
till  she  became  hardly  conscious  of  her  legs.     "I  will 
get  there!     I  will  get  there!"  she  repeated  on  an  oc- 


THE  LANTERN  183 

casion  when  the  road  seemed  to  be  rising  up,  and  strik- 
ing her  knees.  At  last  she  reached  a  dimly  lighted  cot- 
tage near  the  road.  She  entered  the  garden  to  it,  and 
heard  a  dog  bark;  the  noise  went  through  her  like  a 
knife,  but  she  reached  the  door  and  knocked.  A  woman 
opened  it  and  peered  out. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  RoUminster  Manor  is?"  she 
gasped  and  the  light  from  the  room  blinded  her  to 
dizziness.  She  heard  the  woman  talking  to  some  one 
inside.  She  could  not  hear  what  they  said.  She  was 
too  busy  keeping  herself  from  falling.  At  last  a  man 
came  out  with  a  lantern. 

' '  Do  you  want  to  go  up  to  the  Manor  to-night,  miss  ? ' ' 
he  asked. 

She  said,  "Yes!  Yes!"  And  there  was  more  talk- 
ing. Then  the  man  came  out  and  said,  **I  '11  show  ye  the 
way."  She  could  not  thank  him,  and  she  crawled  be- 
hind the  lantern,  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  it.  She  did  not 
know  how  long  this  walk  lasted.  She  believed  the  man 
talked  to  her,  but  she  could  not  hear  him.  She  was  so 
much  engaged  watching  the  lantern,  and  going  on,  and 
on,  and  on,  to  where  it  led.  Things  seemed  light  and 
irresponsible,  nothing  mattered  but  that,  that  the  lan- 
tern should  be  followed.  She  remembered  clutching 
herself  once  or  twice,  and  bumping  into  the  man,  and 
once  she  thought  she  heard  her  voice  sobbing  curiously. 
Then  the  lantern  stopped.  It  was  awful.  She  felt  at 
the  crisis  of  her  trials.  Then  a  black  object  seemed  to 
give  way  and  there  was  a  square  block  of  light — people 
were  talking.  She  could  not  look  up,  the  light  was  too 
strong  and  blinding,  but  down  in  the  square  of  light 
there  was  a  frock — there  was  some  one  standing  in  a 


184  OLGA  BARDEL 

frock  not  far  from  her — a  voice  she  seemed  to  know  sent 
a  vibrant  passion  through  her  frame,  and  something 
snapped  within  her,  as  she  fell  forward  and  threw  her 
arms  round  Mrs.  Fittleworth  's  knees. 


\ 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  I 


"ideas" 


M 


AYBE  I  don't  look  at  women  in  quite  that 
way.     I  was  coeducated.     Were  you  coedu- 


cated?" 


"I  wasn't  educated  at  all." 

The  man  and  the  girl  laughed  as  they  strode  side  by 
side  up  the  hill.  It  was  a  glorious  day,  and  between 
the  silver  stems  of  the  larch  trees  they  could  see  far 
away  beneath  the  blue  waters  of  the  IMoldau. 

Among  the  numerous  students  who  came  to  Prague — 
English,  American,  German,  French,  and  Russian — Olga 
found  none  more  companionable  than  this  curious, 
heavy-framed  American  boy-man. 

His  name  was  Irwin  CuUum  and  he  was  looked  upon 
as  a  crank.  Emma  objected  to  him  because  she  said  that 
his  skin  and  hair  and  eyes  were  all  the  same  color.  They 
were  indeed  of  a  negative  hue,  but  they  expressed 
warmth,  and  his  face  seemed  in  some  way  an  index  of 
self-reliant  power. 

He  had  a  mildly  Napoleonic  countenance  and  enor- 
mous hands.  His  fingers  were  so  large  that  it  surprised 
people  that  he  could  manage  to  strike  only  one  note  on 
the  piano  at  a  time.  There  was  a  certain  heavy  sanity 
about  him,  from  the  serviceable,  badly  cut  clothes  to  the 
gold-stopping  in  his  teeth.     He  spoke  slowly  and  with  a 

187 


188  OLGA  BARDEL 

drawl,  and  belied  the  general  urbanity  of  his  appearance 
by  making  surprising  statements,  and  expressing — what 
seemed  to  Olga — unique  ideas. 

During  the  three  years  that  she  had  lived  with  the 
Fittleworths  at  Prague  she  had  tasted  for  the  first  time 
the  joys  of  the  "things  of  the  mind."  She  became 
slowly  conscious  of  her  own  mind  and  its  power.  She 
knew  she  had  been  very  ill  for  a  long  time,  and  then 
Mrs.  Fittleworth  had  brought  her  over  here  to  Prague. 
She  believed  there  had  been  a  lot  of  trouble  and  a  law- 
case,  but  Mrs.  Fittleworth  would  not  speak  of  these 
things. 

As  the  memory  of  the  terror  of  those  days  of  insist- 
ent material  demand  began  to  recede,  she  seemed  to  sud- 
denly awaken  in  a  new  world.  She  gradually  began  to 
coordinate  certain  ideas  and  impulses;  morality,  of 
which  no  one  had  ever  spoken  except  in  terms  of  what  is 
punishable  and  what  is  not  punishable;  beauty,  which 
puzzled  her  by  its  elusiveness;  and  sex,  which  puzzled 
her  most  of  all.  And  though  she  formed  within  herself 
certain  conceptions  of  what  her  mental  attitude  would 
be  towards  these  things,  she  did  not  hope  to  understand 
them.  She  was  always  searching  the  bounds  of  her  con- 
science for  rigid  precepts  but  always  there  were  doubts. 

"I  am  conscious,"  she  had  said  to  Mr.  Cullum  one 
day,  "of  being  more  susceptible  to  the  influence  of  peo- 
ple than  of  principles.  I  sometimes  come  up  against 
something  in  which  I  feel  I  no  longer  have  the  power 
to  know  how  to  act,  and  then  I  just  think  of  some  per- 
son— like  Mrs,  Fittleworth — and  try  and  act  as  I 
imagine  that  she  would  under  the  circumstances." 

"Mrs.  Fittleworth  's  all  right,"  Mr.  Cullum  had  an- 


"IDEAS"  189 

swered ;  ' '  but  it  won 't  do.  AVliat  you  've  got  to  do  is  to 
get  a  conception  of  yourself — not  a  rigid  conception  but 
a  fluid  one  working  on  definite  lines — and  live  up  to 
that.  You  've  got  a  big  push  in  front  of  you.  Don't 
always  be  justifying  yourself.  Play  the  Liszt  rhapsody 
like  you  did  this  afternoon.  My !  I  wish  I  had  your 
temperament." 

And  then  one  day  a  most  inspiring  thing  had  hap- 
pened. She  had  been  to  a  students'  dance  in  the  town 
with  Emma.  During  a  mad  dance  she  had  suddenly 
felt  a  glowing  interest  in  a  young  Hungarian  officer. 
He  was  a  tall,  delicate  young  man  with  exquisite  man- 
ners and  dreamy  eyes.  She  had  followed  the  impulse 
set  by  the  dance,  and  treated  him  with  a  certain  railing 
abandon.  Emma  told  her  afterwards  that  she  had 
flirted  with  the  young  man,  but  she  did  not  gage  the 
significance  of  this  at  the  time.  She  only  knew  that 
finding  herself  alone  with  him  upon  the  terrace  after- 
wards, he  had  suddenly  seized  her  hands  and  made  vio- 
lent love  to  her.  It  was  very  entrancing  but  bewilder- 
ing. It  seemed  suddenly  to  shatter  the  spectrum  of  that 
moral  vision  that  she  had  been  so  laboriously  construct- 
ing and  split  into  a  hundred  vari-colored  lights.  And 
it  was  of  this  experience  that  she  was  telling  her  "com- 
fortable" American  friend  as  they  strode  together  up 
the  hill. 

"What  surprises  me,"  she  said,  "as  I  look  back  upon 
this  experience — for  you  must  remember  it  was  last 
spring,  and  of  course  I  was  very  young  then — is  that  I 
felt  a  curious  pride  about  the  wliole  thing.  I  was  tre- 
mendously flattered.  T  believe  I  tried  to  make  myself 
fall  in  love  with  him,  but  something  seemed  always  miss- 


190  OLGA  BARDEL 

ing  when  it  came  to  the  point.  I  know  that  on  that  night 
when  he  called  for  the  last  time,  and  threatened  to  throw 
himself  into  the  Moldau  if  I  refused  him,  I  felt  that 
there  was  something  ridiculous  about  it.  And  yet,  after 
he  had  gone  I  looked  out  of  my  window;  the  moon  was 
shining  on  the  river,  and  I  felt  a  strange  and  unholy 
joy  in  it.  I  peered  down  at  the  water  and  tried  to  visu- 
alize a  white,  upturned  face.  Of  course,  as  you  know,  he 
M'ent  away.  I  believe  he  went  back  to  Vienna  and  re- 
joined his  regiment.  It  is  three  months  ago,  and  he  has 
probably  forgotten  me  by  now." 

She  sighed,  and  the  American  boy  grinned  expan- 
sively. 

"It  's  fine,"  he  said,  "that  you  can  take  your  first 
encounter  in  such  a  'decorative'  manner.  It  hasn't 
got  through  to  you — that  's  clear.  You  just  see  your- 
self playing  a  part,  while  poor  Paul  Kolnyay's  heart  is 
probably  broken.  You  're  beginning  to  be  a  person  with 
ideas.     Do  you  know  what  I  mean  by  ideas  ? ' ' 

"I  've  heard  the  expression." 

"It  's  very  important.  You  must  think  about  the 
real  meaning  of  'ideas.'  You  '11  gradually  get  to  under- 
stand, as  you  grow  up,  that  everything  is  illusion  except 
ideas.  It  is  inconsequential  whether  people  fail  or  suc- 
ceed as  people,  but  it  is  essential  that  ideas  prevail. 
I  've  found  this  a  very  comforting  thought  myself.  Do 
you  know  what  has  been  my  greatest  enemy?" 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  girl. 

"]\ry  own  sentimentality."  The  boy  hunched  his 
large  frame  together,  and  struck  at  a  stone  on  the  path 
with  his  stick.  Then  he  thrust  his  head  forward  and 
said: 


"IDEAS"  191 

"My  people  raised  me  on  sentimentality.  You 
wouldn't  believe  it.  I  recall  that  when  I  was  a  kid  of 
six  I  used  to  sob  in  bed  at  night  with  thinking  of  my 
love  of  my  mother.  There  was  no  call  for  it.  My 
mother  was  quite  well  and  happy,  but  I  used  to  think 
of  her  face  and  cry." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Olga  quickly.  "I  've 
done  the  same  sort  of  thing." 

He  looked  at  her  and  nodded,  and  then  continued : 

"It  's  a  very  destroying  thing,  this  sentimentality. 
If  it  could  be  eradicated  from  the  race  there  would  be 
no  unhappiness  at  all.  My  sisters  were  terrible.  They 
used  to  harbor  little  things — mementoes  and  anecdotes 
and  so  on.  They  used  to  keep  certain  days  sacred  in 
memory  of  certain  events.  I  was  younger  than  they, 
and  I  think  I  was  worst  of  all.  It  was  not  till  I  started 
thinking  about  this  question  of  'ideas'  that  I  was  able  to 
combat  it  at  all.  Sentimentality  is  essentially  a  ques- 
tion of  looking  back,  and  there  is — so  much  to  push 
on  to." 

He  flung  out  his  arras  in  a  wide  gesture,  and  they 
sat  side  by  side  on  a  fallen  trunk  of  a  tree.  Three  spar- 
rows flew  over  their  heads  and  darted  behind  a  gorse 
bush,  where  they  quarreled  insistently.  It  was  a 
splendid  view  across  the  river,  with  the  hills  beyond, 
and  the  sun  was  flooding  the  valley  with  a  glow  of  amber 
light. 

"The  other  night,"  said  Olga,  "I  was  thinking  of 
Levitch  in  somewhat  the  same  way  you  mention.  You 
know  I  am  very  fond  of  him.  I  think  of  him  heaps. 
In  the  morning  I  was  in  his  dining-room.  Over  the 
mantelpiece  is  a  painting  of  his  wife.     You  know  they 


192  OLGA  BAEDEL 

were  married  for  a  year,  and  then  she  died.  She  looks 
very  wistful  and  sweet,  and  she  has  on  a  blue  pelisse — 
a  dear  old-fashioned  thing.  The  portrait  is  set  around 
with  candles  like  a  shrine.  Well,  on  this  day  I  sud- 
denly saw  Levitch  look  at  the  portrait,  and  an  expres- 
sion came  to  his  face  I  had  never  seen  before.  He  said 
nothing,  but  all  night  I  kept  thinking  of  his  face  and  of 
his — loneliness.  I  suppose  it  was  very  sentimental  of 
me,  Mr.  CuUum  ?  I  sometimes  think  of  Mrs.  Fittleworth 
in  that  way,  and  other  people  of  whom  I  get  fond." 

"Death  is  an  idea  and  love  is  an  idea,"  he  answered. 
"They  are  both  normal  and  rational  and  evolutionarv : 
it  is  only  the  sentimental  contact  of  these  two  ideas 
that  makes  for  unhappiness  and  remorse.  Say,  you  once 
told  of  a  little  lady  who  helped  you  when  you  were  a 
kid—" 

"Miss  Merson!     I  'd  almost  forgotten  her." 

"  Ah !  And  once  I  guess  you  thought  of  her  like  that. 
Listen,  Olga,  you  've  got  something  big  in  you.  You  're 
one  of  the  rare  ones.  Don't  fiddle  about  with  friend- 
ships." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  mean  that  we  're  all  hemmed  in  by  material  de- 
mands, by  animal  demands,  by  sentimental  demands. 
We  have  to  fight  our  way  out.  Some  of  us  never  fight 
our  way  out.  We  get  crushed  and  die.  But  you  have 
already  'hitched  your  wagon  to  the  star,'  as  we  say. 
My!  the  way  you  played  that  Liszt  rhapsody  was  sim- 
ply— "  He  blinked  at  tlie  sun-bathed  landscape  as 
though  searching  for  a  suitable  epithet,  and  then  sud- 
denly affirmed  in  a  deep  voice,  "bully!" 

Olga  blushed  with  pleasure,  and  took  a  rose  she  had 


"IDEAS"  193 

been  wearing  at  her  breast,  and  buried  her  nose  in  its 
petals. 

"It  's  nice  of  you  to  talk  like  this,"  she  said,  "but 
I  don't  altogether  understand  you.  You  seem  to  think 
that  because  I  can  play  a  little  I  'm  necessarily  a  high 
moral  type  of  person,  and  then  you  don't  seem  to  want 
me  to  have  friends ! ' ' 

The  grave-faced  boy  thought  for  some  moments,  and 
then  he  looked  down  into  the  valley,  and  said : 

"As  I  see  you  and  your  life,  it  's  like  this.  An  artist 
is  always  hampered  bj^  the  chimera  of  ambitions  he 
does  n  't  attempt  to  qualify.  They  usually  take  the  form 
of  material  success.  On  the  other  hand,  he  is  handi- 
capped by  a  too-sympathetic  heart.  You  remember  tell- 
ing me  the  story  of  how  you  followed  the  lantern  up 
the  hill?  You  must  have  believed  in  that  lantern  very 
implicitly.  Why?  Because  it  embodied  to  you  a  des- 
perate craving  for  spiritual  development.  You  have 
the  right  stuff  in  you.  Material  claims  lose  their  ap- 
peal, friends  die  and  are  forgotten,  and  in  the  end  noth- 
ing is  left  but — the  instinct  of  worship  ! ' ' 

"Worship?" 

"It  is  perhaps  the  same  thing  as  your  friend  calls 
'looking  at  life  like  a  child.'  As  I  see  it,  yours  will  not 
be  a  life  of  great  friendship — for  friendship  has  no  place 
in  'ideas' — but  it  should  be  a  life  of  great  passions." 
He  paused  and  fumbled  with  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  and 
then  continued :  "I  envy  you  that.  It  is  only  the  elect 
who  are  capable  of  great  passions,  and  they  hew  their 
way  to  realms  where  we  cannot  follow  them."  As  he 
said  this,  a  young  peasant  came  slowly  round  the  bend, 
leading  a  horse  and  cart  laden  with  ferns. 


194  OLGA  BARDEL 

He  was  young  and  strong,  with  queer  dark  eyes,  and 
he  looked  at  her  with  a  lazy  insolence.  The  sun  was  be- 
ginning to  set,  and  the  lines  of  the  bracken  were  broken 
by  the  long  shadows  from  the  larch  trees.  As  the  cart 
bumped  over  the  slope  she  heard  the  musical  tones  of 
the  peasant's  voice  speaking  to  the  horse,  and  through 
the  shadows  cast  from  the  trees  she  saw  square  patches 
of  sunlight  on  his  bronzed  body.  At  that  moment  a 
curious  feeling  of  exhilaration  came  to  her.  In  a  flash 
she  seemed  to  see  her  life  like  the  golden  panorama  in 
front  of  her,  series  of  splendid  actions  and  fine  episodes 
of  which  she  would  be  the  guiding  figure.  She  turned  to 
her  companion,  and  his  grim  strong  gaze  was  fixed  in  a 
dreamy  contemplation  of  the  scene. 

She  suddenly  thought,  ''One  day  perhaps  some  one 
will  come  down  from  the  mountains  like  that  .  .  .  some 
one  who  will  understand,  who  will  see  things  with  my 
eyes,  some  one  to  whom  everything  will  matter  tremen- 
dously. ' ' 

For  some  reason  she  felt  afraid  to  pursue  the  tenor 
of  these  thoughts,  and  she  said  to  her  fellow-wanderer : 

"We  must  be  going." 

They  walked  in  silence  down  the  hill.  As  they  neared 
the  outskirts  of  the  town,  she  said: 

"Next  week  we  are  going  back  to  England." 

And  he  answered : 

"And  I  will  be  going  back  to  Los  Angeles." 

"We  must  be  friends  still — in  spite  of  my  illusions, 
Mr.  Cullum.     You  must  write  to  me. ' ' 

lie  strode  along  in  silence,  and  then  he  said : 

"One  of  the  greatest  illusions  of  humanity  is — topog- 
raphy.   A  man  leaves  a  town  in  England  and  goes  to 


11 


IDEAS"  195 


live  in  a  town  in  British  Columbia,  and  by  this  means 
believes  that  he  is  'seeing  the  world'  or  'broadening  his 
outlook.'  Place  can  make  no  difference.  My  friendship 
would  only  hamper  you.  I  will  like  to  think  of  you  go- 
ing on,  leading  a  big  life.  Let  yourself  alone.  You  've 
got  the  right  stuff,  and  I  don't  see  ambition  destroying 
you  like  it  does  some  others.  I  have  ambitions  too,  and 
I  expect  I  have  illusions,  but  I  have  no  illusions  about 
my  own  abilities  and  I  have  no  illusions  about  topog- 
raphy. I  '11  be  going  back  to  San  ]\Iartino — it  's  just 
a  bunch  of  wooden  shacks  nestling  in  a  valley.  Don't 
you  think  I  can  be  ambitious  there  ?  If  you  don 't  think 
I  can,  you  're  wrong!  It  's  'ideas'  that  make  a  man's 
ambitions.  But,  Gee!  the  way  you  played  that  rhap- 
sody!" 

They  neared  an  inn,  by  the  door  of  which  a  man  with 
a  dark  mustache  was  playing  a  mandolin.  He  smiled 
at  them  and  showed  his  splendid  teeth.  Inside  the  inn 
four  peasants  were  having  an  impromptu  dance,  their 
bodies  swaying  to  the  rhythm  of  the  wild  Bohemian 
music. 

Olga  caught  her  breath,  and  she  felt  her  heart  beating 
rapidly.  Then  they  passed  on.  The  sun  had  nearly  set, 
and  the  sky  was  flooded  livid  color. 

She  suddenly  said: 

"Nature  is  very  violent." 

Her  companion  seemed  to  be  thinking,  and  he  looked 
at  her  queerly,  but  did  not  answer.  She  felt  the  need 
of  trying  to  express  something  stirring  within  her.  She 
walked  closer  to  him  and  said  rather  breathlessly: 

"Even  in  my  time  I  have  seen  lives  and  people 
destroyed  by  passion  and  violence.  ...  It  seems  terrible 


196  OLGA  BARDEL 

that  what  we  desire  most  brings  us  the  greatest  pain. 
We  want  to  be  loved,  to  be  understood,  and  then  the 
thing  destroys  us." 

He  took  her  arm  and  led  her  towards  the  gate  of  the 
house  where  the  Fittleworths  lived.  He  seemed  for  the 
moment  on  the  point  of  saying  something,  and  then  he 
changed  his  mind.  He  strode  forward,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground.  When  they  arrived  at  the  gate,  he  smiled 
and  took  her  hand,  and,  looking  at  her,  he  said: 

"Sometimes  it  's  worth  it,  though,  I  guess !" 

She  felt  that  this  remark  somehow  crystallized  the 
thought  she  wanted  to  express,  and  yet  the  significance 
of  which  she  could  not  at  the  moment  determine.  She 
felt  a  curious  little  stab  of  pride,  like  she  had  felt  on 
that  night  when  the  young  Hungarian  officer  made  love 
to  her,  and  she  smiled  uncertainly  at  her  fellow-traveler, 
and  went  quickly  through  the  gate. 

And  Irwin  Cullum  passed  on  down  the  road  and  out 
of  her  life ;  and  she  did  not  know  that  in  his  large  hand 
he  held  the  crumpled  petals  of  the  rose  that  she  had 
thrown  away. 


CHAPTER  II 


"the  guildepord  set" 


IT  is  perhaps  only  consistent  with  the  general  pre- 
cocity of  our  heroine  that  within  two  months  of 
her  twentieth  year  she  was  married  and  the 
mother  of  a  son. 

But  before  chronicling  the  events  that  led  up  to  this 
desirable  attainment,  it  may  be  advisable  to  give  some 
description  of  what  was  known  in  those  days  as  "The 
GuildefordSet." 

Walter  Guildeford  and  his  wife  ]\Iarion,  with  their 
two  sons,  Edward  and  Giles,  and  their  two  daughters, 
Agnes  and  Christobel,  lived  in  a  medium-sized  house  in 
St.  John's  Wood,  with  a  studio  and  a  large  garden. 
Walter  Guildeford  was  a  publisher  of  works  of  refer- 
ence. They  were  a  very  devoted,  lovable  family,  and 
they  kept  a  sort  of  open  house  for  the  waifs  and  strays 
of  the  artistic  and  musical  professions  in  the  neighbor- 
hood and  elsewhere.  It  was  an  attractive  garden,  and 
contained  an  excellent  tennis-court,  where  any  after- 
noon in  the  summer  one  could  be  sure  of  getting  a  game, 
and  of  finding  congenial  people  who  were  pleased  to 
see  one,  and  who  were  willing  to  talk,  or  play,  and  to 
give  one  tea.  In  the  winter,  or  if  the  weather  was  wet 
in  the  summer,  you  would  find  them  in  the  studio  play- 

197 


198  OLGA  BARDEL 

ing  paper  games.  Some  people  said  that  the  principal 
attraction  was  the  tennis-court  and  the  studio,  for  it  was 
difficult  to  find  about  the  Guildefords  themselves  any 
particular  quality  that  would  cause  them  to  be  the  cen- 
ter of  so  many  shining  lights  of  the  art  world  at  that 
time. 

They  were  a  physically  unattractive  family,  having 
badly  proportioned  figures,  and  very  plain  faces.     They 
were  all  short-sighted  and  wore  thick  glasses,  except  the 
mother,    and    Christobel — Avhom    people    used    to    call 
"Robin"  for  some  reason  or  other.     Neither  can  it  be 
said  that  their  mentality  was  of  a  very  high  order.     They 
never  expressed  particularly  original  or  individual  points 
of  view,   and  they  were   quite   devoid   of  any   critical 
faculty,  having  an  unqualified  admiration  for  the  work 
of  any  one  who  had  the  habit  of  visiting  their  tennis- 
court.     They  were,  however,  very  quick  and  intelligent, 
and  one  was  immediately  conscious  of  their  innate  kind- 
ness, and  their  loyalty  to  each  other  and  their  friends. 
Their  dominant  characteristic  was  their  unselfishness. 
They  were  surely  one  of  the  most  elaborately  unselfish 
families  that  ever  existed.     They  carried  their  principle 
of  unselfishness  to  such  a  degree  that  it  was  always  de- 
feating its  own  ends.     For  instance,  Mrs.   Guildeford 
would  get  an  idea  from  some  stray  remark  of  his  that 
"Walter"— as  the  whole  family  called  Mr.  Guildeford— 
wanted  to  go  to  the  East  Coast  for  his  summer  holidays. 
She  hated  the  East  Coast  herself,  and  she  knew  that  if 
she  suggested  going  they  would  see  through  her,  because 
she  never   expressed  any   personal  predilections   about 
anything.     So  she  would  tell  the  girls  on  the  quiet  that 
their  father  wanted  to  go  to  the  East  Coast.     Now  the 


''THE  GUILDEFORD  SET"  199 

girls  hated  the  East  Coast  also,  but  they  would  pretend 
that  they  wanted  to  go,  so  that  Mrs.  Guildeford  could 
tell  Walter  that  they  did.  Walter  had  never  meant  any- 
thing by  his  stray  remark,  and  he  detested  the  East 
Coast  more  than  any  of  them,  but  understanding  that 
his  wife  and  the  girls  wanted  to  go  there,  he  would  fall 
in  with  the  idea  with  alacrity.  And  the  boys  would 
give  up  an  invitation  to  Devonshire — a  county  that  they 
loved — for  the  dubious  benefits  of  the  east  wind,  for  the 
same  reason.  It  is  recorded  that  the  Guildefords  went 
to  the  East  Coast  for  seven  years  running  before  they 
discovered  that  none  of  them  really  liked  it !  This  sys- 
tem of  secret  scheming  and  planning  to  do  what  the 
others  might  want  went  through  everything,  and  gen- 
erally resulted  in  none  of  them  getting  what  he  or  she 
really  liked.  They  tried  to  forestall  each  other's  wishes, 
and  read  each  other's  desires  before  they  were  expressed, 
and  even  when  they  were  expressed  they  had  to  be 
suspected.  It  became  terribly  involved  at  times.  They 
really  could  not  trust  each  other.  It  was  perhaps  this 
quality  of  never  expressing  personal  wishes  or  ideas, 
and  never  making  remarks  that  might  run  counter  to  the 
feelings  of  the  people  they  loved,  that  rather  tended  to 
give  the  Guildefords  a  negative  character;  and  though 
their  garden  and  studio  became  a  headquarters  of  the 
"Guildeford  set,"  the  Guildefords  themselves  were  not 
essentially  the  pivots  of  that  set.  It  was  remarkable 
the  people  who  used  to  go  there.  There  was  a  family 
of  extremely  pretty  girls,  called  the  Callabys,  to  whom 
in  appearance  the  Guildefords  acted  as  a  kind  of  foil. 
They  were  very  great  friends.  Two  of  them,  IMildred 
and  Cicely  Callaby,  were  actresses  by  repute,  though  no 


200  OLGA  BARDEL 

one  had  ever  heard  of  them  having  an  engagement,  ex- 
cept occasionally  at  some  special  matinee  for  some  So- 
ciety for  the  Advancement  of  the  Higher  Drama.  But 
they  brought  there  quite  a  lot  of  well-known  actors  and 
actresses,  for  whom  they  seemed  to  have  endearing  nick- 
names. Mildred  Callaby  was  engaged  to  a  rather  dirty- 
looking  sculptor  named  Rodney  Chard.  Glebes  the 
'cellist  played  quite  a  good  game  of  tennis.  Sir  James 
Penn,  the  R.A.,  and  both  his  sons  were  frequent  visitors, 
and  the  great  John  Braille,  who  rode  up  on  horseback, 
brought  an  atmosphere  of  aristocratic  artistry  into  the 
place.  Among  others  that  one  can  remember  offhand 
were  McCartney  the  painter,  and  Eric  "Waynes,  who 
wrote  ''Celtic  twilight"  verses  in  Chelsea,  Boder  the 
dramatic  critic,  and  his  sister,  who  edited  a  Women's 
Rights  paper,  Godfrey  Beel  the  architect,  who  was  the 
only  one  who  really  played  tennis  well,  and  a  boy  known 
as  "Scallops." 

In  addition  to  this  there  were  invariably  people  stay- 
ing in  the  house,  and  a  procession  of  girls  who  seemed 
to  be  Agnes  and  "Robin's"  "best  friends."  There  was 
also  an  American  woman  whom  nobody  could  quite  lo- 
cate. Her  name  was  Polly  Jocelyn  Mainwright  Wil- 
lard.  The  name  alarmed  you,  but  she  was,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  a  delightful  person.  She  was  elderly  and  very 
square  and  broad,  and  had  deep  gray-brown  eyes.  She 
may  have  been  some  sort  of  relative,  in  any  case  every 
one  kissed  her,  including  Mr.  Guildeford,  and  any  one 
else  who  felt  in  need  of  mothering,  and  every  one  called 
her  just  Polly.  She  was  nearly  always  staying  there,  and 
was  a  tower  of  strength  on  many  difficult  occasions. 
She  had  an  engaging  way  of  saying  right  out  things 


"THE  GUILDEFORD  SET"  201 

which  the  Guildefords  would  hesitate  over  for  months. 
When  the  Fittleworths  returned  to  London  for  good, 
they  settled  down  again  in  the  house  in  Mazeburgh 
Square ;  and  it  was  arranged  that  Olga  should  give  three 
recitals,  with  a  month's  interval  between,  and  that  she 
should  play  under  her  own  name  of  Olga  Bardel.  Mrs. 
Fittleworth  allowed  the  agent  to  advertise  them  well, 
but  without  any  undue  flourish.  When  the  day  of  her 
first  recital  arrived,  she  discovered  a  new  quality  in  her- 
self that  she  had  not  experienced  before,  a  feeling  of  in- 
tense nervousness.  She  could  not  account  for  this,  but 
it  was  a  condition  she  never  afterwards  got  over, 
wherever  or  whenever  she  played.  She  was  so  nervous 
that  she  made  three  slips  in  the  first  piece  she  played,  and 
got  hopelessly  involved  in  the  turnings  of  a  Schumann 
arabesque.  After  that  she  played  desperately  and  grad- 
ually regained  her  composure.  She  knew  that  Mr.  Case- 
well  was  in  the  audience,  and  she  thought,  "I  will  show 
him  how  much  I  have  improved. ' '  She  played  the  Liszt 
B  minor  sonata  better  than  she  had  ever  played  any- 
thing in  her  life.  She  rose  from  the  piano-stool  with 
her  face  flushed  and  confident.  She  enjoyed  the  rest  of 
the  program  and  enraptured  the  audience  with  a  per- 
formance of  a  Chopin  group,  charged  with  the  glow  of 
fine  color.  Her  success  was  assured,  but  somehow  differ- 
ent. She  was  more  moved  by  it  and  yet  more  sobered. 
She  could  hardly  speak  when  Mr.  Casewell  came  and 
gripped  her  hand  and  said,  "You  have  come  into  your 
own,  Olga.  It  was  grand!"  Many  people  came  and 
congratulated  her,  most  of  whom  she  did  not  know. 
She  felt  that  she  had  really  affected  them  in  some  way, 
something  of  herself  had  gone  out.     Mrs.  Fittleworth 


202  OLGA  BARBEL 

kissed  her  and  said,  "I  'm  so  proud  of  you,  dear,"  and 
the  little  girls  were  almost  speechless. 

They  returned  to  Mazeburgh  Square  and  had  a  merry 
supper-party,  and  Olga  did  not  sleep  till  dawn,  going 
over  everything  she  had  played  again  and  again,  and 
dreaming  of  the  world  at  her  feet. 

The  press  the  next  day  was  encouraging,  but  there 
were  no  superlatives,  and  several  papers  spoke  mostly 
about  the  slips  she  had  made  in  the  earlier  pieces.  Two 
of  them  mentioned  that  they  believed  Olga  Bardel  was 
the  same  person  as  the  little  girl  Olga  Barjelski,  who 
had  made  some  sensation  a  few  years  back  as  an  infant 
prodigy.  But  the  public  has  a  short  memory  for  prodi- 
gies, and  the  allusion  did  not  arouse  much  interest. 

Olga  was  disappointed  to  find  that  in  spite  of  her  suc- 
cess it  did  not  seem  likely  that  she  was  to  have  many 
engagements  that  summer,  and  the  agent — a  gentleman 
named  Whitbread — said  that  the  great  thing  was  ''to 
keep  pegging  away." 

At  her  second  recital,  the  hall  was  by  no  means  full, 
and  Mr.  Casewell  had  sent  out  some  tickets  for  her. 
Among  other  people  he  sent  to  were  the  Guildefords, 
whom  she  did  not  know.  But  afterwards  Agnes  and 
Christobel  came  round  to  see  her,  and  brought  a  nice  tall 
man  named  John  Braille.  She  had  never  met  people 
before  who  were  so  affectionate  at  sight  as  the  Guilde- 
ford  girls.  They  raved  about  her  to  her  face,  would 
hardly  let  her  go,  and  ultimately  invited  her  to  come  and 
see  them,  and  asked  if  she  played  tennis.  She  had 
played  tennis  once  or  twice  at  Prague,  and  she  accepted 
their  invitation,  "Any  afternoon,"  said  Agnes,  as  they 
were  leaving.     "Do  come." 


''THE  GUILDEFORD  SET"  203 

And  so  it  came  about  that  on  a  certain  afternoon  in 
June,  Olga,  wearing  a  wonderful  frock  of  gray-blue,  with 
a  black  hat,  made  her  initial  appearance  at  the  Guilde- 
fords,  little  suspecting  how  her  visit  was  to  be  fraught 
with  fateful  consequences  to  herself.  She  had  never 
been  among  people  like  that  before  in  her  life.  They 
all  seemed  so  clever,  and  said  such  surprising  things. 
She  felt  that  every  remark  of  hers  was  ordinary  and  un- 
necessary, so  she  remained  very  silent,  watching  them. 
There  was  something  very  charming  about  them  all,  in 
spite  of  their  cleverness.  They  seemed  so  ingenuous  and 
genuinely  affectionate.  She  was  surprised  that  both 
the  girls  kissed  her,  although  they  had  only  met  her 
once  before.  It  was  curious,  too,  that  she  felt  a  slight 
repugnance  at  this  action.  They  were  lovable  girls,  but 
they  were  physically  slightly  repelling,  and  she  thought 
that  if  she  had  been  allowed  to  choose  she  would  have 
liked  to  know  them  a  little  longer  first.  They  intro- 
duced her  brazenly  to  people  as  "Olga  Bardel — that 
perfectly  adorable  pianist."  They  talked  about  her  in 
a  laughing,  admiring  manner,  about  her  clothes,  her 
hair,  her  deportment.  They  made  her  play  tennis,  and 
she  was  relieved  to  find  how  badly  they  all  played,  but  in 
what  good  spirit.  She  was  conscious  of  many  under- 
currents in  certain  games  when  it  seemed  to  be  desirable 
to  let  the  other  side  win.  As  on  occasions  the  other 
side  also  harbored  desires  of  a  like  nature,  the  tennis 
did  not  reach  a  very  high  standard.  But  it  all  seemed 
amazingly  free  and  interesting  to  her.  She  did  not 
know  who  all  the  people  were,  and  they  were  often  in- 
troduced to  her  by  their  nicknames.  But  they  were  all 
people  who  had  "jobs,"  she  was  sure  of  that — they 


204  OLGA  BARDEL 

talked  of  their  jobs  and  each  other's  jobs  in  an  easy- 
going, sympathetic  manner.  And  the  nice  Mr.  Braille — 
who  they  said  was  a  very  great  painter — talked  to 
her  about  her  job,  and  seemed  to  have  a  peculiar 
insight  into  its  intimacies  for  one  who  was  not  a  musi- 
cian. 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  her  second  visit  that  the 
thing  happened. 

Mrs.  Fittleworth  had  gone  over  to  Paris  for  a  few 
days  on  business,  and  the  weather  had  become  duller. 
On  a  certain  afternoon  Olga  had  a  strange  fit  of  de- 
pression. She  had  had  a  slight  tiff  with  Emma  over 
some  question  in  which  their  point  of  view  in  regard 
to  a  book  they  had  been  reading  did  not  coincide.  She 
was  feeling  a  little  discouraged  about  her  work.  Her 
second  recital  had  apparently  been  another  great  suc- 
cess, but  Mr.  Whitbread  did  not  seem  to  have  booked 
her  for  more  than  two  engagements,  and  they  were  in 
the  autumn.  The  large  house  in  Mazeburgh  Square 
seemed  lonely,  and  the  streets  did  not  entice  her.  She 
felt  suddenly  very  much  alone  in  the  world.  She  thought 
she  would  practise,  and  then  changed  her  mind.  After 
a  time  she  put  on  her  hat  and  went  out.  She  took  a 
'bus  to  St.  John's  Wood  and  went  to  the  Guildefords. 
It  seemed  a  ridiculous  day  to  go.  It  was  cold,  and 
might  rain  at  any  minute,  and  no  one  would  want  to 
play  tennis.  When  she  arrived  the  garden  was  empty, 
but  the  studio  door  was  open.  She  peeped  in,  and  heard 
Agnes  cry  out  delightedly,  "Why,  it  's  Olga!"  and  arms 
were  thrown  round  her  neck. 

Christobel  was  also  there,  and  Giles,  and  Mildred 
Callaby,  and  Rodney  Chard,  and  the  boy  they  called 


(( 


THE  GUILDEFORD  SET"  205 


McCartney.  Thej'  were  apparently  all  doing  nothing, 
and  Christobel  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  you  're  just  the  person,  dear.  Do  play  to  us. 
We  're  all  so  disagreeable." 

Olga  felt  rather  in  the  mood  for  this,  and  she  sat 
down  and  played  some  old  Bohemian  folk-songs  that 
Levitch  had  lent  her  copies  of  in  the  manuscript.  The 
Guildefords  loved  it.  They  lay  on  ottomans  and  smoked 
cigarettes  and  adored  her.  She  came  to  the  conclusion 
some  time  after  that  they  were  not  really  a  musical 
family.  They  were  always  more  concerned  with  her 
appearance  and  atmosphere. 

After  she  had  played  three  of  these  folk-songs,  she 
heard  some  one  say,  ' '  Why,  here  's  Harry ! ' ' 

She  rose  from  the  piano,  feeling  that  the  atmosphere 
was  in  some  way  disturbed,  and  walked  away.  As  she 
did  so,  her  eyes  met  those  of  a  young  man  standing  b}' 
the  door.  She  started.  It  was  very  strange !  And  yet 
she  could  not  think  for  the  life  of  her  what  it  was  that 
was  strange.  She  had  felt  the  music  very  much,  that 
restless  disturbing  throb  that  seemed  to  accompany  all 
the  music  from  the  Bohemian  hills.  In  a  flash  she  re- 
called that  day  when  she  returned  from  the  walk  and 
saw  the  peasant  leading  the  cart,  and  he  had  looked  at 
her  "with  a  certain  insolence."  This  music  came  to 
her  so  often  when  she  was  restless.  It  penetrated  her 
with  a  bitter-sweet  thrill.  There  were  times  when  she 
was  almost  afraid  to  play  it.  She  believed  the  others 
were  speaking  to  her,  asking  her  to  go  on,  or  raving 
about  her  frock.  She  did  not  know.  She  was  very  near 
the  door,  and  those  dark  eyes  were  peering  into  hers, 
and  a  voice  said  in  a  deep  musical  cadence: 


206  OLGA  BAEDEL 

"Please  go  on." 

She  did  not  speak,  but  looked  away  from  him.  There 
was  a  skylight  in  the  studio,  and  the  branches  of  a 
plane-tree  were  visible  on  which  some  noisy  sparrows 
were  quarreling.  She  looked  from  them  to  her  hands, 
and  for  some  reason  or  other  brought  them  together 
with  a  rapid  little  action  of  supplication,  and  then  flung 
them  apart.  She  looked  back  to  where  the  piano  stood 
almost  invisible  against  the  wall,  and  waited. 

"Please  go  on.     It  was  glorious." 

The  tones  of  the  voice  had  a  quality  that  was  new  to 
her,  poignant  and  vibrating.  She  felt  something  within 
her  stirring,  as  though  the  key  of  her  mental  and  moral 
outlook  were  being  suddenly  transposed.  She  did  not 
want  to  play  again.  Something  told  her  it  were  better 
not  to,  better  to  go  away,  or  laugh,  or  play  some  Bach, 
or  do  something  that  would  establish  a  definite  hold  over 
her  cosmic  consciousness.  And  yet  she  went,  by  some 
irresistible  impulse,  back  to  the  piano.  She  sat  down 
and  played  the  maddest  thing,  a  wild  Hungarian  dance 
with  a  plaintive  second  theme  that  quivered  in  the  back- 
ground like  the  ghost  of  an  outraged  lover.  It  always 
disturbed  her  very  much,  this  wild  tune.  It  was  so 
desperate,  so  passionate,  so  unutterably  sad.  She  was 
glad  when  she  had  finished  that  it  was  almost  dark. 
Her  heart  was  beating  very  fast,  and  she  breathed  in 
little  short  stabs.  They  all  moved  away,  and  she  went 
out  into  the  garden.  She  wanted  to  be  quite  alone  for 
a  moment.  She  walked  round  by  the  studio  and  peered 
into  an  old  timbered  summer-house.  It  was  a  place  no 
one  ever  went  into,  because  it  got  so  dirty.  She  heard 
the  voices  of  the  others  laughing  and  talking  by  the  door 


"THE  GUILDEFORD  SET"  207 

of  the  studio.  She  put  her  haud  to  her  brow  and  waited. 
She  knew  it  would  happen,  and  she  hardly  looked  up. 
lie  was  standing  there  two  paces  from  her,  and  said  in 
those  furry  tones: 

"How  gloriously  you  play!" 

She  did  not  answer  for  some  moments.  She  was  try- 
ing to  control  herself  entirely.     Then  she  said: 

"They're  fine,  aren't  they? — those  old  folk-songs." 

She  looked  at  his  face.  The  eyes  and  hair  were  very 
dark.  He  was  very  young.  She  had  seen  a  boy  like 
that  in  some  old  Italian  painting — she  could  never  re- 
member the  names  of  painters.  She  believed  in  the 
painting  he  was  nude,  with  small  wings  on  his  heels,  and 
there  were  two  very  beautiful  women  in  the  picture  and 
a  cupid.  She  did  not  know  what  they  were  all  doing, 
but  they  were  obviously  gods  and  goddesses,  unreal  peo- 
ple. One  must  be  a  god  or  be  unreal  to  have  such  beau- 
tiful eyes,  and  a  voice  that — went  through  one  like 
that  .  .  . 

"I  came  to-day  because  I  thought  you  might  be 
here  ...  I  was  at  your  recital.  .  .  .  What  a  ripping 
frock  that  is!" 

She  laughed.  It  was  a  relief  that  a  god  used  such 
ordinary  expressions.  She  strolled  round  the  garden, 
and  he  followed  her.  It  did  not  seem  strange  that  they 
should  not  have  been  introduced,  or  that  he  should  have 
spoken  to  her  like  that.  They  did  not  speak  again,  for 
the  others  strolled  across  the  lawn  and  joined  them,  and 
Mr.  Guildeford  came  home,  and  talked  to  the  god  about  a 
sale  he  had  been  to  at  Sotheby's  that  afternoon.  Olga 
was  impressed  by  the  knowledge  the  god  seemed  to  dis- 
play about  old  and  rare  books,  and  the  deference  and 


208  OLGA  BARDEL 

attention  that  Mr.  Guildeford  seemed  to  pay  him.  She 
noted  the  gleams  of  light  that  illumined  his  face  when 
he  smiled,  and  the  gay  brilliance  of  his  remarks  to  the 
others  when  the  conversation  became  more  general  and 
discursive.  He  said  things  that  conveyed  nothing  to 
her,  and  the  others  laughed  or  flashed  their  approval. 
And  she  found  herself  feeling  proud  at  this.  It  seemed 
only  right  that  in  a  brilliant  throng,  the  god  should  be 
the  most  brilliant,  and  he  had  said,  ''How  gloriously 
you  played ! ' ' 

She  slid  away  from  this  gathering  without  saying 
good-by.  She  felt  a  certain  diffidence,  as  though  she 
might  not  carry  it  off  in  the  right  way. 

She  made  up  her  difference  with  Emma  in  the  evening 
when  she  got  back,  but  she  was  strangely  abstracted  and 
went  to  bed  early.  She  had  much  to  think  about,  but 
one  thought  obsessed  her.  She  must  educate  herself. 
She  must  learn  up  all  sorts  of  subjects  so  as  to  be  able 
to  talk  to  her  god  and  the  others.  After  a  time  she  put 
on  her  dressing  gown  and  went  down  to  Mrs.  Fittle- 
worth's  library.  She  routed  amongst  the  books,  and  at 
last  took  a  copy  of  a  play  by  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  up  to  bed 
with  her.  She  had  heard  them  talk  of  Bernard  Shaw. 
She  rapidly  read  one  act  of  "Mrs.  Warren's  Profes- 
sion," and  her  eyes  sparkled.  Yes!  this  was  it.  She 
had  heard  them  talk  rather  like  this.  These  were  the 
sort  of  things  they  said  to  each  other.  But  it  was  hor- 
rible. She  could  not  understand  a  lot  of  it.  All  the 
people  seemed  to  talk  in  the  same  way.  She  wondered 
why  they  talked  like  that,  and  what  they  meant.  Occa- 
sionally something  would  come  to  her,  something  reason- 


"THE  GUILDEFORD  SET"  209 

able  and  true,  and  then  they  seemed  to  fly  off  at  a  tan- 
gent. 

"I  shall  never  be  able  to  talk  like  that,"  she  thought. 
"One  must  be  awfully  clever.  How  does  one  begin?" 
She  read  part  of  the  introduction,  but  it  seemed  more 
and  more  diflficult.  The  feeling  of  loneliness  came  to 
her  again,  and  on  that  oppressive  night  she  cried,  cried 
because  the  vision  of  her  inability  to  talk  like  one  of 
Bernard  Shaw's  heroines  came  between  her  and  the 
eyes  of  the  god. 

It  was  strange  how  difficult  the  days  became  after 
that,  difficult  and  disturbing,  yet  mellowed  with  a  pene- 
trating sweetness.  She  would  not  go  again  to  the 
Guildefords  for  some  time.  It  would  look  as  though 
she  went  to  meet  him.  She  tried  to  work  very  hard, 
but  that  face  was  always  coming  between  her  eyes  and 
the  keys,  and  the  mellow  tones  of  the  voice  followed 
her  about  the  room — "How  gloriously  you  played!" 
This  was  specially  so  in  the  afternoons  when  the  sun 
shone  again,  and  she  thought  to  herself,  "I  might  be 
there  now,  talking  to  him."  She  pictured  him  walking 
on  the  Guildeford  lawn,  with  the  white  scarf  round  his 
neck,  his  dark  eyes  flashing  as  he  talked  to  the  others, 
and  all  the  while  furtively  watching  for  her.  Would 
he  be  watching  for  her?  This  thought  disturbed  her 
more  than  anything.  She  had  never  had  any  one  who 
watched  for  her  hungrily  like  that.  Ah !  if  it  were 
true ! 

On  the  Saturday  she  went  again.  It  was  a  warm 
bright  day,  and  there  were  many  people  there.  He  was 
playing  tenuis  when  she  arrived,  in  a  four  with  the 


210  OLGA  BARDEL 

Callaby  girls  and  the  boy  IMcCartney.  She  fought  her 
way  through  the  general  effusion  and  sat  on  a  deck  chair 
on  the  slope  above  the  tennis-court.  The  god  glanced 
at  her  and  smiled.  The  voice  of  Boder,  the  dramatic 
critic,  was  drawling  in  an  insistent  iteration : 

"His  construction  is  bad!  His  construction  is  bad! 
Now,  a  play  that  is  based  upon  some  moral  propaganda, 
upon  the  conflict  of  social  forces,  requires  to  be  treated 
in  the  grand  manner.  Much  has  to  be  sacrificed  to  the 
concentration  on  the  main  idea.  Now,  you  will  notice 
that  when  Lady  Cheevil  leaves  Hemingway  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  second  act,  and  he  opens  the  telegram 
from  Olive  ..." 

She  did  not  know  whether  he  was  playing  well,  but 
did  any  one  ever  return  a  ball  with  such  grace !  She 
thought  perhaps  she  liked  him  best  when  he  was  stand- 
ing negligently  at  the  net.  She  liked  the  easy  pose  of 
his  body,  and  the  alert  way  he  swayed  to  crush  a  return 
from  his  partner's  serve.  His  teeth  gleamed  and  he 
gave  a  boyish  whoop  of  glee  at  the  successful  execution 
of  the  stroke.     A  girl  in  a  brown  djibbah  was  saying: 

'  *  My  dear,  the  color  makes  you  squirm !  Pinks,  and 
greens,  and  orange,  painted,  I  should  think,  with  a  nail- 
brush. It  reminds  me  of  those  awful  colored  diagrams 
of  diseases  of  people's  insides.  You  know,  you  can  see 
them  at  the  College  of  Surgeons.     Roony  says  ..." 

The  set  was  finished.  He  was  putting  on  his  coat  and 
saying  something  amusing  to  Mildred  Callaby,  and  she 
was  shaking  her  racket  at  him.  The  four  broke  up,  and 
scattered  into  the  group,  and  "Robin"  was  trying  to 
make  up  another  four,  but  was  experiencing  the  usual 
difficulty  at  the  Guildefords,  everybody  apparently  in- 


(( 


THE  GUILDEFORD  SET"  211 


sisting  that  it  was  "their  turn  to  sit  out."  Olga  re- 
fused to  play,  and  tried  to  talk  to  IMcCartney.  He  was 
a  nice  boy,  round  and  fat,  but  very  silent.  lie  had  an 
unconquerable  habit  of  scribbling  on  bits  of  paper,  and 
making  surreptitious  sketches  of  people  which  he  would 
never  show.  He  could  not  keep  his  hands  still.  They 
called  him  "The  Oracle,"  partly  on  account  of  his 
silence,  and  partly  because  he  occasionally  let  drop  some 
cryptic  phrase  that  became  historical  and  was  quoted. 
He  had  a  genius  for  giving  people  nicknames,  and  for 
summing  them  up  in  Attic  metaphors.  The  Oracle, 
however,  was  in  an  unresponsive  mood  this  afternoon, 
and  it  was  another  voice  that  suddenly  vibrated  near 
her, 

"You  ought  to  be  able  to  play  tennis  well." 

"Why?" 

"From  the  way  you  play  Bohemian  dances." 

"I  'm  afraid  it  's  very  different." 

''Con  fuoco!     Tempestiioso!" 

"I  'm  afraid  the  balls  might  go  out,  or  be  hit  into 
net,  if  I  played  tennis  too  much  like  that." 

"They  wouldn't  if  you  wanted  them  not  to." 

It  was  a  ridiculous  conversation.  Their  eyes  were 
searching  each  other's,  and  yearning  to  say  other  things, 
and  they  were  hemmed  in,  with  all  these  good  people 
around  them.  Olga  arose  and  strolled  towards  the  cor- 
ner of  the  lawn  where  tea  was  being  prepared.  He  fol- 
lowed her.  When  they  were  just  out  of  earshot  of  the 
others,  he  said  in  a  low  tone : 

"Where  have  you  been?  Why  didn't  you  come  be- 
fore?    All  this  week  I—" 

She  looked  at  him  quickly.     She  was  inexperienced 


212  OLGA  BARDEL 

in  these  affairs,  but  something  told  her  that  things  were 
progressing  too  rapidly.  It  came  to  her  mind  that  she 
ought  to  be  in  some  way  frigid,  and  yet — a  lock  of  his 
hair  shaken  free  by  the  exercise  curled  upon  his  temple, 
and  his  eyes  were  earnest,  imploring. 

*'I  have  been  working,"  she  said. 

"Ah !  Will  you  let  me  come  and  see  you?  Will  you 
play  to  me?" 

The  lawn  seemed  to  end  abruptly  against  a  trellis. 
A  white  cloth  was  spread,  and  her  eye  lighted  upon  the 
contours  of  a  large  homemade  cake.  It  had  the  genial, 
innocuous  air  that  was  characteristic  of  the  Guildefords. 
This  seemed  a  desperate  adventure.  Could  she  invite 
the  young  man  to  Mrs.  Fittleworth 's  ?  What  would 
that  good  lady  say  and  think?  She  was  to  return  to- 
morrow. 

"Olga  dear,  will  you  sit  here?  Harry?"  It  was 
the  placid  voice  of  Mrs.  Guildeford  trying,  as  McCart- 
ney once  remarked,  to  introduce  a  sort  of  collectivist 
spirit  into  a  community  of  anarchists.  She  sat  between 
Harry  and  Mr.  Guildeford,  who  was  in  very  good  spirits, 
and  indulged  in  a  lot  of  mild  fun  regarding  the  death- 
dealing  properties  of  the  large  cake.  He  warned  Olga 
against  it,  and  said  that  another  famous  pianist  had  had 
some  of  a  similar  description  the  previous  summer,  and 
had  not  been  heard  of  since.  Harry,  on  the  contrary, 
contended  that  he  had  heard  that  the  pianist  had  im- 
proved considerably  since  eating  the  cake,  that  his  tone 
had  become  fuller  and  more  resilient.  Mrs.  Guildeford 
kept  saying: 

"It  's  too  bad  to  laugh  about  my  cake." 

It  was  almost  impossible  to  have  any  sort  of  intimate 


"THE  GUILDEFORD  SET"  213 

conversation  at  the  Guildefords',  they  had  so  great  a 
sense  of  this  impersonal  love  of  theirs  that  they  never 
realized  that  two  people  might  like  to  whisper  in  corners 
or  say  exclusive  things  to  each  other.  After  tea  she 
was  made  to  play  tennis,  and  the  god  was  not  even  in  the 
same  set.  It  was  not  till  she  was  going  that  he  made  the 
opportunity  he  had  been  lying  in  wait  for.  He  met  her 
in  the  hall  and  said,  "May  I  walk  with  you  a  little 
way?" 

They  crossed  a  bridge  over  the  Regent's  Park  Canal, 
and  took  a  turning  into  the  Park.  And  there,  on  an 
unromantic  seat  facing  the  iron  railings  of  the  Zoo,  he 
made  love  to  her. 

Could  this  be  real  ?  "Was  this  the  dawn  of  that  desper- 
ate gladness  of  which  the  poets  never  tired  to  sing? 
Would  it  really  come  to  her  ?  Now  that  they  were  alone 
they  seemed  more  than  ever  afraid  to  speak  of  what  was 
in  their  hearts.  They  juggled  M^ith  the  most  absurd 
banalities,  and  only  their  eyes  gave  them  significance. 
It  surprised  her,  the  clearness  and  the  radiance  of  it  all. 
She  tore  herself  away,  and  all  the  evening  she  felt  him 
by  her,  the  memory  of  every  little  thing  he  had  said  and 
every  action  seemed  vivid  and  poignant.  When  she 
went  to  bed  his  face  seemed  very  near.  She  could  see 
the  sentient  lines  of  his  mouth  and  chin,  the  eyes  ador- 
ing her,  and  hear  that  voice  that  touched  some  hidden 
chords. 

From  that  day  the  world  assumed  a  new  radiance.  It 
was  as  though  all  her  vital  interests  became  accelerated. 
She  walked  serenely  and  found  new  joys  in  little  things. 
All  the  terrors  of  her  young  life  vanished.  The  forms 
of  Uncle  Grubhofer  and  Irene  and  the  Du  Cassons  were 


214  OLGA  BARDEL 

but  dim  memories  behind  the  veil  of  time.  She  felt 
proud  and  virile.  She  could  not  analyze  her  pride, 
neither  did  she  desire  to  do  so.  Life  itself  was  suffi- 
cient. She  was  very  gracious  and  affectionate  to  her 
foster-mother  and  the  girls,  and  developed  a  surprising 
interest  in  her  clothes.  She  practised  hard,  and  found 
new  and  pregnant  meaning  in  the  music.  She  found 
she  had  to  concentrate  with  greater  force,  or  otherwise 
those  eyes  would  appear  between  her  and  the  keys. 

On  the  Wednesday  he  called.  Mrs.  Fittleworth  had 
been  forewarned  by  a  statement  that  "a  clever  com- 
poser, a  friend  of  the  Guildefords,  named  Mr.  Streat- 
ham,  wants  to  call  and  play  me  some  of  his  compositions. 
I  hope  you  won't  mind,  dear  Mrs.  Fittleworth?"  Mrs. 
Fittleworth  was  very  kind  to  him,  and  he  was  soon  an 
established  favorite  with  Emma  and  MoUie.  But  it 
seemed  strange  that  it  did  not  apparently  occur  to  either 
of  them  that  she  might  want  to  talk  to  the  god  alone. 
Even  when  she  suggested  showing  him  her  room  where 
she  worked,  the  little  girls  must  needs  follow.  They 
conversed  with  their  eyes,  and  once  he  touched  her  elbow. 
He  made  her  play,  but  would  not  play  any  of  his  own 
compositions  to  her.  He  said  she  must  come  and  see  his 
people. 

This  visit  took  place  two  days  later,  and  it  cannot  be 
said  that  it  was  a  success.  He  lived  with  his  mother 
and  three  sisters,  all  of  whom  worshiped  him,  and  were 
jealous  of  his  friends.  They  seemed  to  Olga  rich,  con- 
ventional people,  rather  like  refined  editions  of  the  Du 
Cassons.  They  treated  her  with  a  frigid  courtesy,  and 
did  not  leave  her  for  a  second  with  the  god.  He  played 
some  of  his  own  compositions  to  her,  and  she  felt  a  little 


"THE  GUILDEFORD  SET"  215 

puzzled  and  disappointed.  They  were  very  involved 
and  clever,  but  somehow  they  were  not  quite  what  she 
expected  of  him.  She  told  herself  on  the  way  home  that 
she  was  not  clever  enough  to  understand  them.  They 
must  be  very  wonderful.  She  would  study  more  and 
more,  and  one  day  perhaps  she  would  be  able  to  appre- 
ciate them  at  their  full  worth. 

They  met  again  at  the  Guildefords,  and  it  was  sur- 
prising that  the  Guildefords  did  not  see !  Again  he 
walked  home  with  her  through  the  Park,  and  touched 
her  hands  an  unnecessary  number  of  times. 

It  was  in  a  punt  up  the  river  near  IMarlow,  under 
the  shade  of  young  willows,  that  things  at  last  took  a 
definite  turn.  He  had  invited  her  with  one  of  his  sis- 
ters and  a  young  man  to  whom  the  sister  was  engaged, 
and  the  couples  became  conveniently  separated.  He 
tied  the  punt  to  the  branch  of  the  willow  and  came  and 
sat  beside  her.  Unlike  her  vision  in  the  Park,  where 
everything  seemed  transcendentally  clear,  this  day  took 
on  the  nature  of  a  dream.  She  lay  on  the  cushions,  and 
watched  the  glittering  sunlight  through  the  branches 
and  bathed  her  hands  in  the  little  dark  pools  beneath 
the  boat.  Cattle  were  lowing  in  a  meadow  near  by,  and 
the  lapping  of  the  boat  against  the  drift  of  the  stream 
gave  the  illusion  of  movement,  as  though  the  whole 
thing,  boat  and  river  and  tree,  were  drifting  away  into 
some  new  and  glorious  existence.  She  noticed  how 
graceful  his  pose  was  as  he  leaned  over  the  side  of  the 
boat,  the  sun  bronzing  a  patch  on  his  neck  and  shoulder. 
And  then  he  moved  toward  her.  She  felt  him  touching 
her  skirt,  and  the  boat  wobbled.  He  was  very  near  to 
her,  and  she  hardly  dare  look  into  his  eyes.     He  took  her 


216  OLGA  BARDEL 

hand,  and  she  heard  his  voice  lower  than  a  whisper. 
*'01ga!" 

Why  did  he  say  it  like  that?  She  looked  at  his  eyes 
and  smiled,  and  then  looked  away  and  down  into  the 
water.  Was  it  really  moving?  Was  the  whole  thing 
drifting  away  out  into  some  unknown  sea? 

"Olga  dear,  you  know,  don't  you?" 

She  breathed  quickly,  feeling  a  little  uncertain  of  her- 
self, only  very,  very  conscious  of  him,  and  the  almost 
imperceptible  sway  of  the  boat.  His  face  was  nearer. 
It  was  so  near,  she  shut  her  eyes,  dazzled  and  not  know- 
ing how  to  act.  She  knew  that  he  was  all  around  her, 
and  his  lips  were  upon  her  eyes.  A  strange  sense  of 
repose  possessed  her.  Ah !  if  she  might  never  open  them 
again,  but  drift  away  like  this  with  this  river,  and  the 
tree,  and  the  eternal  memory  of  that  moment ! 

' '  Olga  dear,  look  at  me.     Oh,  my  darling ! ' ' 

The  lips  followed  their  burning  course  across  her 
cheek  and  settled  with  a  fiery  ecstasy  upon  her  lips. 
Then  it  was  that  something  within  her  stirred.  She  felt 
a  wild,  conflicting  tumult  of  emotions,  as  though  some 
life  force  were  battering  at  the  gates  of  her  soul.  The 
impulse  of  desire  stood  naked  before  the  mirror  of 
its  own  too  fervid  expression.  Whither?  Whither? 
Whither  was  the  river  drifting,  with  all  its  little  par- 
ticles scurrying  by  the  boat  ?  She  gave  a  cry  and  thrust 
out  her  arm,  and  stammered: 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     I  don't  know,  dear." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  she  noticed  the  lines  of 
chaf,'rin  on  his  face.  Her  bosom  heaved,  and  she 
clutched  his  hands  and  stroked  them  feverishly.     The 


"THE  GUILDEFORD  SET"  217 

tears  stole  down  her  cheeks.  She  murmured  in  little 
jerky  sentences: 

"I  'm  so  sorry.  You  see,  I  hardly  know,  Harry. 
Please  don't  misunderstand  me,  dear.  My  life  has  been 
very  difficult  ...  all  sorts  of  strange  things.  Some 
people  have  been  very  good  to  me,  of  course,  but —  I 
don 't  know ;  I  feel  I  want  to  talk  to  you  lots  first.  And 
I  want  you  to  talk  to  me."  She  dabbed  her  eyes  with 
her  handkerchief,  and  he  murmured: 

"Olga  darling,  I  know — I  know.  Only,  tell  me — I 
may  love  you,  mayn't  I?  Don't  kill  me  by  saying  no. 
It  doesn't  matter  what  we  do  or  talk  about,  I  shall 
always  love  you." 

She  pulled  at  his  hands  feverishly  while  he  tried  to 
kiss  her  cheeks. 

She  shut  her  eyes  again  and  lay  back  on  the  cushions, 
and  said  almost  inaudibly: 

"Not  like  you  did  just  now,  dear  ...  it  makes  me 
frightened." 


CHAPTER  III 


Karl's  visit 


MR.  and  Mrs.  Harry  Streatham  were  seated 
on  a  lounge  in  their  private  sitting-room  in 
the  Hotel  du  Soleil,  Paris.  He  was  smoking 
and  they  had  been  silent  for  some  time.  At  last  she 
said: 

''Harry." 

"My  darling?" 

**  Harry,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  When  we  get  back — 
home,  it  will  be — different  there,  won't  it?  We  shall 
have  our  work  and — you  want  me  to  continue  with  my 
work,  don't  you,  darling?" 

"Of  course,  darling;  anything  you  like." 

"Yes,  but — you  see —  I  want  to — we  must  work  to- 
gether, must  n  't  we  ?  You  must  help  me,  and  I  must  try 
and  help  you.  Of  course  I  know,  dear,  it  's  no  good 
pretending :  you  're  clever  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
and  I  'm  not.  But  we  must  try  and  see  things — with 
each  other 's  eyes,  must  n  't  we  ?  " 

"Why,  of  course,  dear.  You  shall  always  do  as  you 
like.     Of  course,  I  suppose — " 

"Yes?" 

"Well,  just  this  year,  darling,  your  work  may  be  a 
little — hampered,  mayn't  it?" 

'Yes  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  know,"  she  said,  and  her  lips 

218 


( I- 


KARL'S  VISIT  219 

were  slightly  pale.  "But,  oh,  Harry,  you  won't  want 
me  to  give  up  all  I  've  worked  for,  will  you  ?  You  won 't 
expect  always — " 

Streatham  rose  and  knocked  his  cigarette  ash  into  the 
fireplace,  and  repeated : 

"Of  course,  dear,  it  shall  always  be  as  you  like.  I 
think  I  '11  go  for  a  stroll  round  before  turning  in." 

She  saw  him  yawn  and  glance  at  an  oleograph  of  Zer- 
matt  that  hung  on  the  wall  by  the  door,  and  then  slowly 
pick  up  his  hat  that  lay  on  the  table.  He  came  over  and 
kissed  her  chin,  and  said,  "Shan't  be  ten  minutes,  darl- 
ing." 

With  a  sudden  clear  transcendence  she  beheld  her  vi- 
sion of  him  split  as  by  a  double  refraction ;  the  splendid 
ease  and  poise  with  which  he  graded  these  little  actions, 
broken  by  the  shafts  of  supple  arrogance  that  underlay 
them.  He  was  like  a  cat  that  gambled  on  his  soft  fur 
and  the  beauty  of  his  lines,  expecting  from  life  as  his 
traditional  prerogative  the  right  to  be  fed  and  clothed 
and  loved,  and  allowed  to  wander  at  random.  He  had 
the  cat's  superb  insistence,  too — the  right  to  mew  for 
what  he  wanted  till  he  got  it,  and  then  to  blink  and  purr 
with  satisfaction. 

She  noticed  the  lines  of  his  well-cut  clothes  as  he  hesi- 
tated for  a  second  by  the  door,  and  the  delicate  poise  of 
his  beautiful  head  as  he  leaned  a  little  forward  and 
gripped  the  handle.  "With  a  quick  movement  he  turned, 
and  smiled  at  her,  and  was  gone.  She  sat  there,  gazing 
at  the  door,  trying  to  reconcile  certain  misgivings,  cer- 
tain matters  that  seemed  to  demand  "thinking  all  over 
again,"  as  Levitch  would  say.  Of  course  it  was  all  right, 
everything  was  all  right,  only —     She  could  hear  his 


220  OLGA  BARDEL 

voice  talking  in  the  hall,  to  the  hall  porter,  no  doubt — 
he  liked  talking  to  these  people  in  French;  he  spoke 
French  very  well.  What  was  it  she  was  thinking  about 
Levitch?  Ah!  yes,  "to  think  all  over  again."  She 
must  n  't  forget  that.  She  must  n  't  lose  that  faculty. 
He  had  told  her  not  to — under  any  circumstances.  She 
must  be  able  at  all  times  to  look  at  things  like  a  child,  to 
keep  her  perceptions  and  impressions  fluid  and  un- 
spoiled. Something  like  that  he  had  said.  What  was 
that  Harry  was  saying?  He  was  not  talking  French  at 
all,  he  was  talking  English,  He  was  speaking  in  a 
strange  key  for  him,  and  there  was  another  voice  she 
seemed  to  recognize,  rising  in  a  whining  crescendo.  She 
heard  the  drone  of  the  traffic  outside,  and  the  pleasant 
tooting  of  horns,  and  then  the  door  opened  suddenly, 
and  Harry  stood  there,  looking  somehow  ashamed,  with 
an  expression  on  his  face  she  had  not  seen  before.  He 
was  saying: 

"Do  you  know  this  person?" 

She  glanced  from  him  to  a  figure  that  huddled  by  the 
door,  a  figure  that  was  grinning  at  her  and  muttering: 

"Olger,  Olger!" 

She  peered  at  it,  and  it  came  closer.  It  was  a  man 
with  a  thin,  cadaverous  face  and  close-cropped  hair.  He 
stooped  very  much,  and  held  a  cloth  cap  in  front  of  his 
mouth.  He  gave  a  furtive  glance  round  the  room,  and 
it  was  this  movement,  accompanied  by  the  tones  of  the 
voice,  that  brought  home  to  her  the  fact  that  the  figure 
was  that  of  her  brother  Karl ! 

She  had  the  instinct  to  cry  out.  She  was  very  moved 
and  upset.  He  was  the  most  pitiable  apparition.  But 
something  rose  within  her  to  cope  with  this  feeling  of 


KARL'S  VISIT  221 

wealoiess.  It  was  a  sort  of  hardening  of  her  heart  against 
her  husband.  She  was  conscious  of  his  attitude  of  out- 
rage, as  though  she  had  brought  some  dreadful  and  un- 
pardonable infliction  upon  the  comfort  and  security  of 
his  life.  After  all,  she  had  told  him  about  her  family. 
It  is  true  he  had  hardly  seemed  to  listen,  as  though  such 
things  were  outside  the  pale  of  his  imagination,  as  though 
she  were  picturesquely  exaggerating.  And  nothing 
could  alter  this:  it  was  her  brother,  a  poor  broken 
creature,  object  for  any  one's  pity  rather  than  contempt. 
And  he,  he  ought  to  have  been  sorry  for  her  and  for  him, 
but  instead  of  that  he  almost  bullied  her  before  her 
brother's  face.  She  steadied  herself  and  said  very  de- 
liberately : 

''It  's  my  brother— Karl. " 

She  was  conscious  of  her  husband  giving  a  sudden 
vicious  tilt  to  his  hat,  and  turning  aside,  and  then  light- 
ing a  cigarette,  and  of  the  voice  of  Karl  in  a  thin,  quaver- 
ing key : 

"I  'm  sorry,  Olger,  to  disturb  yer,  I  'm  right  down 
on  me  luck,  old  girl — I  see  you  git  out  of  a  feeaker  this 
evening  and  come  into  the  hotel  with  this  toff.  I  waited 
for  yer — I  thought  yer  might  come  out  again.  I  'ope 
you  're  all  right,  Olger,     I  'ope  things  are  all  right?" 

She  put  out  her  hand,  and  shook  Karl 's,  and  said  very 
calmly: 

"Yes,  I  'm  all  right,  thank  you,  Karl.  "What  are  you 
doing  in  Paris?" 

The  derelict  blew  on  his  fingers  and  shuffled  from  one 
leg  to  the  other,  and  then  answered : 

"I  come  over  'ere  some  time  ago.  I  'ad  a  job  in  some 
stables  at  Shanteely,     I  been  doin'  different  things.     I 


222  OLGA  BARDEIi 

got  a  touch  of  the  roomatiz  in  me  shoulder  some  time 
back — I  was  in  a  'orspital." 

He  blinked  at  the  magnificence  of  the  little  salon,  and 
repeated,  "Yer  doin'  all  right  then?" 

A  sudden  inspiration  came  to  the  wife  of  Harry 
Streatham,  and  she  walked  to  the  fireplace  and  rang  the 
bell ;  at  the  same  time  she  said : 

"Come  and  sit  down,  Karl,  and  tell  me  all  your  news. 
You  '11  have  some  supper,  won't  you?" 

She  noticed  that,  as  the  waiter  entered,  her  husband 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  out.  She  ordered  some 
cold  chicken  and  salad,  and  a  small  bottle  of  red  wine. 
It  was  a  strange  meal.  Never  at  any  time  had  she  and 
Karl  had  anything  in  common  except  this  mutual  de- 
sire for  food. 

He  looked  at  her  furtively  and  self-consciously,  nib- 
bling his  food  like  a  rat.  He  did  not  seem  very  hungry, 
but  he  gulped  the  wine  greedily.  As  he  sat  there,  the 
vision  of  the  old  room  in  Canning  Town  came  back  to 
her.  She  could  almost  see  the  black  wood  of  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  the  worn  spot  on  the  cupboard  door  where 
dirty  hands — just  above  her  reach — had  rubbed  it  bare, 
she  could  see  the  lighting  of  it  revealing  the  tattered 
blind,  and  Irene  bending  over  the  table,  ironing. 

"Are  you  merried  to  this  bloke?" 

It  was  Karl 's  voice  that  broke  upon  her  dream.  Was 
she  married  ?  She  knew  that  in  some  circles  such  a  ques- 
tion would  rouse  indignation,  but,  after  all,  why  should 
Karl  know  ?     What  chances  had  Karl  ever  had  ? 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Got  money?"  came  the  next  question  slick  upon  her 
answer.     She  knew  that  this  was  a  natural  corollary  to 


KARL'S  VISIT  223 

the  suggestion  of  happiness,  from  Karl's  point  of  view. 
Had  she  got  money  ?  Honestly  she  did  not  know.  Some, 
at  any  rate.  She  had  heard  people  say  that  the  Streat- 
hams  were  well  off,  and  she  knew  that  Harry  had  his 
remittance  regularly.  It  was  in  any  case  ample,  enough 
to  be  happy  upon.  It  was  Karl  himself  who  eventually 
answered  his  own  question. 

' '  'E  dresses  yer  all  right — anyway. ' ' 

Somehow  this  statement  struck  the  first  really  ob- 
jectionable note  that  Karl  had  so  far  indulged  in.  It 
emphasized  the  idea  of  possession  so  crudely.  He 
dressed  her  all  right !  It  was  true ;  she  was  bedecked 
and  splendid,  and  led  about  like  a  prize  animal  through 
Europe.  Ah,  no!  Harry  was  not  like  that.  He  liked 
her  to  look  well,  but  he  would  not  harbor  such  a  mean 
concept  of  her.  He  was  too  sensitive,  too  refined.  Be- 
sides, was  she  not  a  free  woman,  and  no  man's  property? 
Had  she  not  played  in  all  the  towns  of  England,  and 
"the  people  had  paid  to  hear  her"?  Any  time  she 
could  go  away  again,  and  earn  enough  money  for  all 
practical  ideas  of  happiness.  She  thought  she  would 
shift  the  ground  of  this  personal  inquisition,  and  she 
said: 

"Have  you  heard  any  news  of  the  others,  Irene  or 
Montague?" 

"No,"  said  Karl.  "Montague  went  to  Orstrj^lia,  I 
believe.  I  never  'card  from  'im.  I  see  Irene  two  years 
ago.  She  was  livin'  in  fine  style  in  B'yswater.  She 
was  'a  keep,'  I  think — seemed  to  'ave  pots  of  money — 
never  gave  me  none,  though." 

A  sudden  horrible  dread  came  over  Olga. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'a  keep'?"  she  asked. 


224  OLGA  BARDEIi 

"Why,  you  know,"  chuckled  Karl.  "Being  kept  by 
some  bloke!" 

"Do  you  mean — "  gasped  his  sister,  and  then  she 
steadied  herself,  and  asked  quickly,  "What  sort  of  man 
was  he,  do  you  know  ? ' ' 

Karl  swirled  the  claret  round  in  his  glass,  and  said: 

"Seemed  to  have  a  bit  of  stuff.  They  was  liviu'  all 
right,  got  a  servant  and  that." 

Was  there  no  other  standard  by  which  Karl  could 
judge  these  things  ?  Was  he  entirely  dead  to  any  human 
feeling  or  sensibility?  What  could  she  ask  him  that 
he  would  understand?  He  did  not  seem  to  know  the 
man's  name,  or  to  have  kept  a  record  of  their  address. 
His  only  concern  in  the  whole  business  seemed  to  be  that 
' '  they  would  n  't  give  him  nothing. ' '  He  spoke  of  Uncle 
Grubhofer,  and  she  could  tell  by  the  tones  of  his  voice 
that  he  still  had  an  unconscionable  dread  of  him.  He 
believed  he  was  running  some  business  in  Hammersmith, 
a  sort  of  agency  concerning  which  Karl  was  particularly 
mysterious  and  leery. 

When  these  family  matters  were  disposed  of,  there 
was  an  interminable  pause.  Olga  racked  her  brains  to 
think  of  something  further  to  say,  and  Karl  for  his  part 
stood  picking  his  teeth,  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and 
occasionally  looked  at  her  out  of  his  small  greedy  eyes 
and  coughing  nervously.    At  last  he  said : 

"Well,  yer  doin'  all  right  then,  Olger?"  He  cleared 
his  throat,  and  prepared  the  ground  for  the  opportunity 
of  the  "scoop"  which  he  felt  too  good  to  be  lost. 

"Is  'pose  yer  could  n  't  raise  a  bit  for  me  ?  I  got  a 
good  thing  on  at  Shanteely — a  deal  over  some  'orses  a 
friend  of  mine  could  put  me  up  to.     There  's  a  French 


KARL'S  VISIT  225 

marquis  wants  to  buy  a  brace  of  roau  mares — I  know 
just  where  to  put  me  'and  on  'em.  I  could  bring  off  a 
good  scoop  if  I  'ad  forty  pounds — eh  ?  D '  yer  think 
the  toff  'd— " 

Olga  resented  the  attitude  with  regard  to  the  "toff" 
more  than  anything,  and  she  felt  a  burning  desire  to 
assert  herself,  to  prove  to  Karl  that  she  was  not  a  puppet 
dangled  on  a  string.  She  cut  the  harangue  short  by 
saying : 

"If  you  call  here  to-morrow  at  twelve  o'clock,  I  will 
lend  you  forty  pounds." 

The  face  of  Karl  lighted  with  amazement  mingled  with 
regret.  It  was  the  easiest  thing  he  had  ever  pulled  off, 
and  he  was  consumed  with  remorse  that  he  had  not  asked 
for  fifty,  or  even  a  hundred.  However,  he  thought  it 
wiser  to  go  warily.  After  all,  if  forty  pounds  was  so 
easy  to  raise  in  this  quarter,  it  could  be  done  again,  and 
perhaps  again  and  again.  He  w^as  almost  maudlin  with 
gratitude,  and  a  little  uncertain  whether  it  would  not 
be  advisable  to  try  and  get  a  little  on  account  to-night. 
After  all,  it  was  only  Olga  who  had  said  that  he  could 
have  forty  quid;  perhaps  when  the  toff  came  home — 
however,  he  did  not  want  to  spoil  a  good  effect,  and  he 
took  his  departure. 

"When  he  had  gone,  she  took  a  book  up  to  bed  and 
made  a  ridiculously  abortive  effort  to  read.  Harry 
returned  just  after  eleven  o'clock.  Through  half-closed 
eyes  she  saw  him  enter  her  room  and  peer  at  her.  He 
looked  a  little  ruffled  and  important,  but  he  smiled  at 
her  and  said,  ' '  Asleep,  old  girl  ? ' ' 

She  said,  "No." 

He  whistled  under  his  breath,  and  said: 


226  OLGA  BARDEi; 

"The  river  looks  awfully  jolly  to-night.  I  saw  a 
regular  Goya  subject  near  the  Tuileries,  looking  down 
into  some  gardens.  There  were  booths  lighted  up,  and 
figures  in  white  caps,  and  a  bonfire  burning — " 

He  paused  and  examined  some  spot  on  his  chin  in  the 
mirror,  and  then  said,  "Your  brother  went,  then?" 

Olga  called  him  to  her  and  held  his  face  very  close  to 
hers,  and  whispered  breathlessly: 

"Harry  darling,  I  want  you  to  help  me.  My  brother 
is  in  great  trouble.  I  have  promised  to  lend  him  forty 
pounds  by  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow." 

He  started  from  her  and  exclaimed,  "Forty  pounds!" 
and  then  he  laughed  uneasily  and  added: 

"But,  my  dear  girl,  I  have  n't  got  forty  pounds  here." 

She  said,  "No;  I  thought  you  might  not  have,  but  we 
can  get  it,  can't  we?  I  have  promised,  you  see.  If  you 
can't  get  it,  I  can  cable  to  Mrs.  Fittleworth.  I  am  sure 
she  would  lend  me  forty  pounds." 

Harry  got  up  from  the  bed  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  room,  a  shadow  passing  over  his  face. 

"I  suppose  this  doesn't  mean,"  he  said  at  length, 
"that  this — brother  of  yours  will  want  to  be  always 
hanging  about,  and  borrowing  money.  We  don't  want 
Mrs.  Fittleworth  wired  to  for  money  on  our  honeymoon. 
I  suppose  I  could  manage  it  somehow,  but — " 

He  looked  at  her,  and  saw  that  she  was  crying.  In 
a  second  his  arms  were  round  her  and  his  lips  were 
pressed  against  her  cheek.  But  she  was  in  one  of  her 
strangely  emotional  moods.  He  could  not  quite  under- 
stand her.    Why  all  these  tears? 

"I  have  told  you  of  my  people,  dear,"  she  gasped. 
"I  can't  help  it — I  know  they  're  different — not  like  the 


KARL'S  VISIT  227 

people  you  are  used  to — but,  oh,  my  God !  they  are  my 
people.  I  can't  cast  them  off — entirely."  She  buried 
her  face  in  the  pillow.  A  feeling  of  splendid  magnanim- 
ity pervaded  Streatham,  and  he  murmured  : 

' '  There,  there,  darling !  It  's  all  right,  of  course. 
We  must  do  what  we  can.  We  must  try  and  help  them, 
and  so  on.     Come!" 

He  tried  to  kiss  her  lips,  but  she  shrank  from  him, 
and  shivered  in  somewhat  the  same  way  as  she  had  that 
day  upon  the  river  at  ]\Iarlow.  The  situation  appeared 
to  him  very  trying.  He  wanted  to  be  magnanimous, 
but  he  detested  this  sort  of  situation.  He  shook  him- 
self free,  and  disrobed  himself  in  a  deliberate  and 
mechanical  manner.  He  felt  that  it  was  due  to  himself 
to  exhibit  certain  traces  of  hardness  and  authority. 

They  had  a  horrible  time  after  that,  gaging  the  emo- 
tionalism of  each  other  by  opposing  standards,  misjudg- 
ing, and  misunderstanding.  He  went  to  sleep  in  her 
arms  at  last,  and  she  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  wet  with 
tears  also.  In  the  still  night  she  could  see  his  face,  by 
the  pale  reflection  of  the  moon,  sleeping  and  breathing 
heavily  like  a  spoilt  child.  Had  she  been  cruel  to  him? 
Why  should  she  expect  him  more  than  any  of  the  others 
to  understand  everything?  It  was  only  that  when  he 
came,  she  wanted  him  so.  She  had  thrown  around  him 
such  a  glamour,  such  a  halo.  Was  he  not  her  god?  the 
being  who  was  to  respond  to  all  the  calls  of  her  slumber- 
ing restlessness?  She  somehow  had  imagined  that  such 
a  being  would  understand,  would  dovetail  with  every 
little  wish  and  thought.  She  had  given  him  a  divinity, 
and  it  was  a  cruel  and  perverse  standard  for  her  to  have 
set  up.     To-morrow  she  would  be  kinder  and  more  con- 


228  OLGA  BARDEL 

siderate,  as  became  one  who  was  to  be  the  mother  of  his 
child. 

Before  they  left  for  England,  Karl  had  reaped  his 
maximum  "scoop."  He  set  forth  on  a  wild  bacchanale 
through  the  cafes  of  Montmartre  with  notes  for  six  hun- 
dred francs  in  his  pocket,  and  an  address  in  London 
where  he  expected  that  in  a  crisis  he  could  get  some 
more. 

The  Streathams  returned  from  their  protracted  honey- 
moon, and  occupied  a  small  but  distinguished-looking, 
modern  Georgian  house  in  Hampstead. 

It  was  a  proud  day  for  Olga  when,  with  everything  in 
order,  she  dispensed  tea  in  her  own  drawing-room  to 
Mrs.  Fittleworth  and  her  girls,  and  the  Guildefords, 
and  many  of  their  other  friends.  And  it  was  with  a 
thrill  of  pleasure  that  she  once  more  started  practising 
on  her  own  grand  piano,  given  her  as  a  wedding  present 
by  Mrs.  Fittleworth. 

She  found,  however,  that  her  practising  was  subject 
to  very  serious  disruptions.  She  had  the  responsibility 
of  three  servants,  and  they  seemed  to  vie  with  each 
other  in  causing  dissensions  and  upsetting  "the  master." 
And  they  had  a  genius  for  leaving  at  the  most  inoppor- 
tune moments,  and  for  banging  doors  and  making 
unseemly  disturbances.  Moreover,  Harry  had  a  great 
idea  of  sociability.  At  least  two  or  three  evenings  a 
week  he  required  to  have  people  asked  to  dinner,  and 
on  the  other  evenings  he  liked  to  go  out  to  dine  with 
other  people,  or  go  to  the  theater  or  the  Queen's  Hall. 
All  these  things  distracted  her,  and  tended  to  eat  into 
the  valuable  time  and  effort  that  still  remained  to  her 
before  she  would  have  to  retire  for  the  while.     It  was 


KARL'S  VISIT  229 

only  by  great  persuasion  that  she  managed  to  get  Harry 
to  consent  to  her  giving  another  recital  in  October.  He 
seemed  to  think  it  rather  a  waste  of  time  and  money,  as, 
"if  she  got  engagements  from  it,  she  might  not  be  able 
to  fulfil  them." 

It  grieved  her  to  know  that  Levitch  had  decided  not 
to  come  to  London  again.  He  would  remain  now  always 
within  his  walled  garden  at  Prague.  He  sent  her  a  box 
of  peaches,  and  told  her  that  "a  time  arrives  when  it 
is  better  to  say  that  one  becomes  old." 

She  did  not  feel  happy  with  the  people  that  Harry 
liked  to  have  round  them.  They  were  mostly  literary 
people,  or  people  holding  positions  of  direction  or  pat- 
ronage in  the  artistic  world.  They  liked  to  sit  over  their 
wine  and  beat  about  to  find  surprising  theories.  They 
drawled  recondite  phrases  in  comfortable,  detached 
voices,  as  though  they  themselves  were  not  a  part  of  life, 
but  a  sort  of  coterie  of  languid  thoughts  that  found  in 
life  a  certain  mild  field  for  their  expression.  Their  con- 
versations left  her  nerveless  and  physically  fatigued. 
The  only  people  she  liked  were  John  Braille,  who  came 
but  seldom,  and  a  certain  Sir  Philip  Ballater,  who  lived 
alone  in  a  large  house  in  Hampstead,  near  them.  He 
was  an  Englishman  who  had  lived  so  long  abroad  that 
he  spoke  English  with  a  foreign  accent.  He  was  a 
middle-aged,  distinguished-looking  man,  and  she  liked 
him  because  he  had  the  faculty  for  silence.  They  said 
that  he  had  been  in  the  diplomatic  service  at  Vienna, 
but  what  gave  them  a  common  ground  of  sympathy  was 
that  he  knew  and  loved  Prague,  and  had  met  Levitch. 
He  was  at  the  present  time  a  director  of  the  National 
Museum  of  Applied  Art,  and  was  considered  one  of  the 


230  OLGA  BARDEL 

greatest  authorities  on  armor  and  ceramics.  His  house 
was  in  itself  a  veritable  storehouse  of  priceless  works. 
He  had  extremely  courtly  manners  and  entertained  with 
a  silent  magnificence. 

She  was  conscious  in  his  house  of  a  sense  of  repose. 
They  dined  in  a  circular  hall  of  black  and  white  marble, 
and  at  a  large  circular  table,  where  masses  of  fresh 
flowers    (usually  orchids)    trailed  from  a  central  jar- 
diniere up  to  the  plates  of  the  guests.    Well  modulated 
lights  enhanced  the  beauty  of  gleaming  silver,  and  were 
sufficient  to  make  the  faces  of  the  diners  discernible,  but 
vague    and    interesting.     An    uncountable    number    of 
servants  glided  in  and  out  between  the  marble  columns, 
and  silently  brought  and  carried.     They  were  the  most 
unnoticeable  servants  she  had  ever  encountered.     The 
only  sound  audible  during  the  dinner  was  the  sound  of 
a  fountain  that  always  played  in  a  courtyard  off  this 
room.     She  liked  the  murmur  of  this  running  water.     It 
seemed  to  make  it  not  so  necessary  to  force  conversation, 
it  filled  up  intervals,  and  had  a  message  of  its  own.     It 
was  true  that  even  here  conversations  would  become 
extremely  "precious,"  but  they  were  less  general,  and 
one  became  more  intimate  with  one 's  next-door  neighbor. 
And  if  one  said  something  that  was  not  entirely  brilliant 
or  important,  it  became  lost  in  the  large  spaces  of  the 
room  and  mellowed  by  the  eternal  chant  of  the  running 
water. 

Sir  Philip  Ballater  seemed  to  take  to  Olga.  He  fol- 
lowed her  closely  with  his  large  pathetic  eyes  and  talked 
at  times  quite  volubly.  He  showed  her  all  his  paintings 
and  his  ceramics,  over  which  he  brooded  with  a  maternal 
tenderness.     The  house  had  something  of  the  nature  of 


KARL'S  VISIT  231 

a  show  place.  After  dinner  one  wandered  all  over  it, 
and  sat  and  talked  where  one  would,  or  with  whom  one 
would.  It  had  no  centers  of  attraction,  no  focus  of 
social  life.  It  was  all  equally  beautiful,  equally  com- 
fortable and  equally  heated — a  passionless,  cultivated 
atmosphere. 

One  evening  after  dinner,  Sir  Philip  took  her  to  see 
some  jMing  that  he  had  just  had  brought  to  town  from 
his  place  in  the  country.  It  was  set  on  a  black  case  in 
a  small  room  decorated  in  a  Japanese  style.  He  puffed 
feverishly  at  his  cigarette  as  he  approached  it,  and  put 
on  his  spectacles.  He  passed  his  hands  over  it  and  asked 
her  to  feel  the  glaze.     She  did  so  and  duly  approved. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "dear  lady,  you  should  approve  if 
any  one.  There  are  not  many  who  have  the  sensitive- 
ness. What  you  call  your  color  in  music,  my  glaze  is 
to  me.  It  is  very  subtle,  very  difficult  to  define,  isn't 
it?  But  it  is  there."  He  stroked  each  piece  with  a 
lingering  caress. 

"Do  you  mean,  Sir  Philip,"  said  Olga,  "that  you  can 
tell  the  different  pieces  by  the  touch?" 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "it  is  all  I  can  tell  by.  I  some- 
times come  down  here  when  it  is  quite  dark,  and  talk  to 
these  children  of  mine.  Is  not  the  value  of  all  life  in 
that,  the  recognition  of  these  finer  sensibilities?  One 
can  never  trust  the  outer  semblance  of  anything.  One 
may  have  a  handsome  face,  or  one  may  conduct  the  fifth 
symphony  of  Beethoven  brilliantly  and  correctly,  but  it 
is  only  those  of  us  who  have  the  sense  to  know  in  the 
dark  who  can  decide  if  the  face  is  really  beautiful,  or  if 
the  performance  is  really  worth  doing." 

He  looked  at  her  closely,  and  she  was  conscious  of  a 


232  OLGA  BARDEL 

sort  of  magnetic  power  about  him.  He  sighed  and 
closed  one  of  the  cases,  and  they  passed  through  into 
another  room  and  sat  down.  There  was  a  Musabeh 
screen  at  the  back  of  them  and  she  heard  two  voices  in 
conversation.  One  of  them  was  Harry's  and  the  other 
Boder's,  the  dramatic  critic.     Boder  was  saying: 

"As  far  as  that  goes,  my  dear  chap,  I  must  acknowl- 
edge that  the  music  of  Wagner  always  has  that  effect 
on  me — 

'Each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves' 

sort  of  feeling.  That  is  why  I  prefer  Tchaikowsky. 
He  is  more  definitely  passionate — cleaner  in  a  way.  I 
am  too  old  to  have  my  emotions  honeycombed  by  these 
abstruse  desires — " 

She  heard  the  mellow  tones  of  Harry's  voice,  perhaps 
made  even  a  little  more  mellow  by  the  excellent  quality 
of  Sir  Philip's  port. 

"I  am  not  contending  that  the  music  of  Wagner  is 
any  more  immoral  than  any  other  music.  All  music  is 
immoral.  It  is  one  of  the  antennie  of  the  senses.  One 
of  the  gay  appanages  of  the  creative  being,  like  flowers 
or  the  beauty  of  women,  all  a  part  of  the  cunning  scheme 
of  creation." 

And  then  the  booming  voice  of  Boder: 

"But,  my  dear  chap,  what  is  there  immoral  in  crea- 
tion? or  the  beauty  of  sexual  attraction,  as  far  as  that 
goes  ? ' ' 

"Nothing  at  all,"  answered  Harry's  voice.  "It  is 
only  that  music  appeals  to  the  act  and  not  to  the  idea. 
It  is  exclusively  sexual.     It  inspires  women  with  a  sort 


KARL'S  VISIT  233 

of  glamorous  sense  of  surrender,  and  man  with  a 
dynamic  sense  of  creation  or  destruction.  The  Puritans 
recognized  this  in  the  seventeenth  century  when  they 
even  abolished  music  from  the  churches,  or  allowed  it  to 
be  performed  only  by  unsexed  boj^s.  Have  you  noticed 
how  many  of  the  great  creative  people  loathed  music  ? — 
Darwin,  Carlyle,  Victor  Hugo,  Flaubert,  and  so  on. 
Even  your  'cleanest  composer,'  Tchaikowslcy,  destroyed 
himself.  I  said  it  was  one  of  the  antenna?  of  the  senses, 
but  I  'm  not  sure  it  's  not  a  diseased  antenna,  the  legacy 
of  some  perverted  god." 

She  heard  Boder's  ingratiating  snigger,  and  his  voice 
broken  by  a  slight  stammer  that  often  accompanied  it: 

"My  d-dear  fellow,  I  'm  surprised  that  you  have  the 
courage  to  prosecute  such  a  d-dangerous  calling." 

And  Harry 's  comfortable  laugh : 

*'I?     Oh,  I  love  it!" 

She  caught  the  eye  of  Sir  Philip  and  moved  away, 
feeling  strangely  perturbed.  AVhy  did  Harry  talk  like 
that?  AVas  it  talk?  just  the  love  of  talk?  or  did  he 
really  mean  what  he  said?  If  he  meant  what  he  said, 
why  did  he  never  speak  to  her  in  that  strain  ?  Was  he 
afraid  that  she  would  not  understand  him?  or  was  he 
afraid  that  she  would  understand  him? 

**Ah,  my  dear  Mrs.  Streatham,  I  must  show  you  my 
Spode.  You  have  not  seen  my  black  Spode,  have  you? 
It  has  a  quality  you  will  admire. ' ' 

He  pulled  aside  a  curtain,  and  bowed  in  a  courtly 
manner.  She  was  not  sure  whether  he  had  heard  the 
conversation  and  was  trying  to  distract  her  from  its 
possibly  unpleasant  effects,   or  whether  his  mind  had 


234  OLGA  BARDEL 

never  left  the  cloisters  of  his  temple  of  earthenware. 
But  she  stepped  gladly  past  the  curtain,  feeling  that 
in  the  company  of  black  Spode  she  would  at  least  inhale 
the  incense  of  tranquillity. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  DRONE  OF  LONDON 

THE  day  was  close.  A  humidity  hung  over  the 
Ilainpstead  garden,  where  she  lay  in  a  ham- 
mock between  the  mulberry-tree  and  the  wall. 
The  little  son  was  four  mouths  old,  and  it  was  only 
during  the  last  week  that  she  had  been  out.  She  had 
been  very  ill,  very  ill  indeed;  and  at  one  time  two  doc- 
tors had  despaired  of  her.  But  she  was  now  able  to 
walk  again,  and  the  child  was  sleeping  up-stairs  in 
charge  of  a  nurse.  Harry  was  out  for  the  day,  playing 
golf  with  some  friends.  The  FittleAvorths  were  in 
Paris.  "Robin"  Guildeford  had  called  on  her  the  pre- 
vious day,  but  to-day  she  felt  lonely  and  restless.  She 
got  up  and  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and  struck  a 
few  chords  on  the  piano,  but  her  nerves  were  jaded,  and 
her  fingers  seemed  stiff  and  unresponsive.  She  went 
back  to  the  hammock  and  meditated.  It  seemed  very 
silent  there,  and  in  the  distance  she  could  hear  the  drone 
of  London,  a  dim,  muffled  roar.  It  sounded  very  sug- 
gestive and  remote.  It  seemed  so  wonderful  that  all 
these  individual  and  desperate  noises  should  merge  into 
one  sound.  Seven  million  people  all  doing  different 
things,  struggling,  creating,  disputing,  and  then — one 
sound  to  express  the  whole.  She  looked  at  her  watch. 
It  was  half-past  five.     Harry  would  not  be  back  to  din- 

235 


236  OLGA  BARDEL 

ner  till  eight.  He  had  gone  to  Northwood,  or  Richmond, 
or  somewhere.  She  suddenly  got  out  of  the  hammock 
and  went  indoors.  She  went  to  the  telephone  and 
ordered  a  taxi,  and  then  went  up-stairs  and  put  on  her 
hat  and  a  cloak. 

When  the  cab  came  she  told  the  man  to  drive  to  Oxford 
Street.  It  was  pleasant  rushing  through  the  air,  the 
only  thing  to  do  on  a  day  like  this.  She  had  been  out 
for  drives  before,  but  never  on  so  adventurous  a  journey. 
She  had  a  great  desire  to  see  people,  all  sorts  of  people, 
good  and  bad,  rich  and  poor,  to  split  up  this  insistent 
phrase  of  sound,  as  it  were,  and  get  in  touch  with  its 
component  parts.  She  was  one  of  the  parts  herself. 
There  must  be  millions  like  her,  not  entirely  happy,  and 
not  entirely  unhappy,  helping  to  make  this  sound.  It 
would  be  something  just  to  glance  into  their  eyes  in 
passing.  There  must  be  many  who  were  lonely  like  she 
was,  calling  restlessly  into  the  void,  trying  to  awake  an 
echo. 

The  cab  wound  its  way  through  Camden  Town,  amidst 
the  squalling  cacophony  from  coster  stalls  and  smaller 
shops,  and  the  smell  of  uncooked  meat  and  fish.  In  a 
few  years  they  would  have  all  gone,  all  these  component 
parts  with  their  petty  trials  and  tribulations  of  the 
heart;  but  still  the  one  sound  would  go  on,  droning, 
droning,  droning.  What  did  it  all  mean?  Or  did  it 
mean  just  nothing?  A  dull  reiteration  of  the  Will-to- 
live,  as  Plarry  would  say? 

She  dismissed  the  cab  at  Portland  Road  Station  and 
started  to  walk  down  Great  Portland  Street.  She  went 
past  some  shops,  and  then  took  a  turning  to  the  left.  In 
a  few  minutes  she  was  amongst  mean  streets,  like  those 


THE  DRONE  OF  LONDON  237 

in  which  she  had  passed  her  youth.  She  saw  the  be- 
draggled children,  pale  and  ill-nourished,  but  vaunting 
a  sort  of  strident  happiness  just  like  they  did  in  Can- 
ning Town,  mostly  by  noise  and  by  their  unconquerable 
imagination.  It  struck  her  for  the  first  time  what  a 
wealth  of  creative  genius  was  always  being  born.  ^Vith 
pieces  of  chalk  and  string  and  broken  boxes,  they 
invented  games,  and  deeds,  and  images  of  the  great 
world.  What  happened  to  all  this  inventiveness  that 
was  absorbed  in  the  drone  of  the  great  city  ?  She  looked 
up,  and  found  her  answer  in  the  repelling  masonry  of 
tenement  blocks,  and  buff  gray  houses  which  frowned 
and  absorbed  the  children  and  ultimately  crushed  them 
and  flung  them  forth — mere  atoms  of  the  dreary  iter- 
ation of  the  Will-to-live.  She  remembered  what  Levitch 
had  said — "You  must  never  lose  that — the  power  to 
look  at  life  with  child-eyes." 

She  felt  somehow  soothed  by  the  desperate  fecundity 
of  these  children;  it  seemed  like  the  assertion  at  least 
of  some  primal  divine  intention.  She  thought  of  her 
own  son.  He  should  always  look  at  life  "with  child- 
eyes."  She  would  fight  for  that  in  him.  No  one 
should  rob  him  of  that.  lie  should  keep  all  his  impres- 
sions and  intuitions  fresh  and  unspoiled.  Was  she 
keeping  her  own?  Was  it  possible?  She  steadied  her- 
self against  an  area  railing.  She  saw  a  small  girl,  very 
dirty,  trying  to  reach  a  bell.  She  was  a  strange,  dark 
little  thing.  She  must  have  been  rather  like  that  her- 
self many  years  ago.     She  said : 

"Which  bell  do  you  want,  dear?" 

The  child  said : 
'Top  one.     Mrs,  Osgrove." 


(<i 


238  OLGA  BAKDEL 

She  rang  the  bell  for  the  child,  and  gave  her  sixpence. 
The  little  girl  stared  at  it  open-mouthed,  and  as  the  door 
opened,  dashed  in  as  though  she  dreaded  that  the  money 
might  be  taken  from  her.  As  she  did  so,  Olga  turned 
and  noticed  an  evil-looking  man  standing  by  her.  He 
had  seen  the  transaction,  and  he  called  out: 

"  'Ere!" 

He  pushed  his  way  through  the  door  and  slammed  it, 
and  she  heard  a  scuffle  and  a  scream.  She  instinctively 
banged  on  the  door,  but  there  was  no  answer,  and  she 
felt  rather  as  though  she  was  going  to  faint.  She 
stepped  out  into  the  road  and  walked  slowly  away.  The 
action  and  the  fresher  air  steadied  her.  She  turned  back 
into  Great  Portland  Street.  She  met  several  girls  walk- 
ing furtively,  some  singly  and  some  in  couples. 

"They  have  been  crushed,"  she  thought;  "crushed 
and  thrown  out  of  the  great  buildings.  Once,  perhaps, 
they  could  build  images,  and  now  the  world  is  dead  to 
them." 

She  passed  one  fair  little  French  girl.  She  seemed 
little  older  than  Mollie  Fittleworth.  A  wave  of  unspeak- 
able pity  came  over  her.  She  went  up  to  her  and  sud- 
denly said  in  a  strained  voice: 

"May  I  help  you?" 

The  girl  looked  at  her  quickly,  and  a  bewildered  ex- 
pression came  over  her  face — a  mixture  of  doubt,  sorrow, 
and  a  sort  of  desperate  cunning.  For  a  fraction  of  a 
second  she  hesitated,  and  then  said : 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu!  no  .  .  .  no!" 

She  darted  down  a  side  street  and  left  Olga  staring 
into  the  face  of  a  man.  He  grinned  at  her,  and  raised 
his  hat.     She  felt  rather  frightened,  and  jumped  on  to 


THE  DRONE  OF  LONDON  239 

a  motor  'bus  going  west.  What  was  this  conspiracy  of 
destruction?  Was  that  the  note  of  London,  a  dirge  of 
destruction  ?  Children,  women,  and  men  devouring  each 
other,  and  buildings  crushing  them?  Would  nothing 
come  out  of  all  this?  But  were  these  people,  in  their 
animal  vileness,  any  worse  than  others  who  sat  at  cul- 
tured tables  and  talked  of  the  Sensuality  of  Music  ?  who 
carved  all  aspirations  into  libertinous  phrases? 

Was  the  man  who  stopped  her  in  the  street  any  worse 
than  the  man  who  married  her  and  showed  a  critical 
sense  of  esthetic  values  in  the  thing?  It  was  only  that 
he  had  cast  a  spell  over  her,  had  made  her  his  bond- 
woman, a  slave  of  her  own  sense  of  attraction  to  him. 
Good  God !  what  was  she  thinking  about  ?  Were  these 
thoughts  true  ?  or  only  some  chimera  of  this  humid  day  ? 
She  had  never  dared  to  give  them  shape  before.  She 
had  thrust  them  away  whenever  they  dared  find  entrance 
in  her  fears,  but  there  was  something  about  the  freedom 
of  the  streets,  the  friction  of  the  lives  of  these  crude 
people  that  made  her  see  the  clearer.  But  she  would 
not  believe  that.  She  loved  her  husband ;  she  would  set 
her  teeth,  and  wnn  out  to  the  end. 

She  walked  down  Regent  Street.  The  varied  char- 
acter and  costumes  of  the  people  excited  her.  As  she 
neared  the  lower  end,  she  saw  two  women  coming 
towards  her.  They  were  apparently  of  the  same  class 
as  those  she  had  met  in  Great  Portland  Street.  One 
was  rather  stout,  with  fair  fuzzy  hair,  the  other  was 
dark,  with  very  bright  coloring.  She  had  almost  passed 
them,  when  she  noticed  the  dark  one  nudge  the  other, 
and  she  heard  her  exclaim: 

"My  Gawd!  if  it  isn't  my  sister!" 


240  OLGA  BARDEL 

Olga  started.  She  was  almost  afraid  to  look.  When 
she  did,  she  gazed  upon  the  most  horrible  sight  she  had 
ever  beheld.  A  strange  feeling  of  sickness  came  over 
her  and  a  sense  that  the  world  was  crashing  about  her 
ears.  Irene's  eyes  were  heavily  penciled,  her  cheeks 
were  red,  and  her  mouth  was  large  and  loose.  Her  dark 
hair  was  cunningly  twisted  under  her  hat,  and  her 
clothes  gave  her  figure  a  surprising  but  unconvincing 
development. 

It  was  strange  that  in  the  first  moment  of  that  tragic 
meeting,  some  instinct  for  the  conventions  disturbed 
Olga.  She  wondered  whether  she  ought  to  let  Irene  see 
that  she  understood,  whether  she  ought  to  be  affectionate 
or  tragic;  she  wondered,  in  short,  how  she  ought  to 
behave.  The  moment  seemed  so  fraught  with  horror  and 
surprise,  that  it  found  her  nerveless  and  quite  unstrung. 
It  was  almost  a  relief  that  it  had  apparently  no  such  effect 
on  Irene,  who  seemed  quite  self-composed,  and  grinned 
at  her  with  her  broad  slit  of  a  mouth.  All  through  the 
scene  that  followed  Olga  could  not  take  her  eyes  from 
Irene's  mouth.  She  could  not  remember  her  having  a 
mouth  like  that.  She  could  not  quite  remember  what 
Irene's  mouth  was  like,  but  this  one  was  horrible. 

"Well,  'ow  are  yer  gettin'  on?  All  right?"  was 
Irene's  greeting,  and  it  occurred  to  Olga  how  remark- 
ably identical  it  was  with  Karl's  greeting.  There  was  no 
need  to  analyze  its  meaning.  It  simply  meant,  "Have 
you  got  plenty  of  money,  and  enough  to  eat  and  drink?" 
She  almost  dreaded  a  reference  to  the  "toff,"  and 
remarks  that  "he  seemed  to  be  dressing  her  all  right." 
She  instinctively  made  up  her  mind  that  she  wouldn't 
mention  her  marriage.     She  managed  at  last  to  say: 


THE  DRONE  OF  LONDON  241 

"I  'm  all  right,  Irene.     How  are  you?" 

The  duologue  was  immediately  interrupted  by  the 
third  woman,  who  said : 

"My  Gawd!  Chadsworth,  you  never  told  us  you  'ad 
a  lady  for  a  sister.  Let  's  go  and  'ave  a  drop  of  rum 
and  milk." 

Irene  laughed  in  a  peculiarly  free  but  mirthless  man- 
ner, and  stepped  to  the  outside,  so  that  Olga  was  between 
the  two  women.  They  all  started  to  walk  slowly  down 
a  side  street  in  the  direction  of  Soho. 

"Fancy  meeting  you!"  repeated  Irene.  But  it  was 
said  with  no  great  sense  of  surprise,  no  regret,  no  moral 
misgiving,  without  conveying  any  feeling  of  intimacy 
or  personal  sympathy. 

"She  is  crushed,"  thought  Olga;  "crushed.  I  can 
never  get  her  back.  She  is  dead.  I  must  comfort  my- 
self by  thinking  that  she  is  dead.  Everything  has  gone 
out  of  her.  .  .  .  Oh,  God!  how  horrible  it  is!" 

It  was  strange  how  at  that  tragic  hour  the  person  of 
the  third  woman  seemed  more  attractive  and  compan- 
ionable to  her.  She  said  in  a  dreary,  almost  aggrieved 
voice : 

"I  'm  surprised  at  you,  Chadsworth,  never  telling  me 
you  'ad  a  lady  for  a  sister." 

Chadsworth?  What  did  Chadsworth  signify?  What 
drab  story  might  not  be  connected  with  this  somewhat 
grandiloquent  name !  They  turned  suddenly  to  the  left 
under  a  covered  way,  and  Olga  found  herself  being  con- 
ducted through  a  dim  cafe  where  some  Italians  were 
playing  dominoes  and  drinking  vermouth  and  beer. 
Two  other  women  were  sitting  near  the  door,  and  one, 
a  very  large  person  with  little  earrings,  caught  hold  of 


242  OLGA  BARDEL 

Irene  and  whispered.  Olga  could  not  hear  what  was 
said,  but  she  thought  she  heard  Irene  say,  ''Of  course 
I  will,  dear." 

There  was  a  curious  atmosphere  of  freemasonry  in  this 
place.  Men  and  women  seemed  under  some  loyal  bond. 
They  took  very  little  notice  of  each  other,  but  when  they 
did  they  called  each  other  by  affectionate  names,  and 
exchanged  understanding  glances.  They  passed  through 
into  an  inner  room  where  there  were  several  marble-top 
tables,  and  sat  down.  The  air  was  very  close,  and  had 
a  quality  of  its  own.  Olga  felt  rather  faint.  A  waiter 
with  a  fair  beard  came  up,  and  she  heard  the  third 
woman  say,  "I  '11  have  my  usual.  Tommy.  What  '11 
your  sister  'ave,  Chaddy  ? ' '  Irene  was  appealing  to  her, 
but  she  put  her  hand  to  her  head  and  said: 

"I  don't  think  I  '11  drink  anything,  thank  you." 

"Oh,  go  on!     Bring  'er  a  drop  of  brandy." 

She  was  relieved  for  the  moment  that  Irene  and  the 
third  woman  seemed  to  ignore  her.  They  started  a  con- 
versation between  themselves,  about  some  one  called 
"Lily,"  who  had  not  been  seen  lately.  When  the  drink 
was  brought,  Irene  suddenly  said: 

"  'Ere!     'Ave  you  seen  Uncle  Grubhofer?" 

Olga  said: 

"No." 

Irene  gave  forth  a  hard  metallic  laugh  and  said : 

"Lord,  you  must  go  and  see  'im.  Only  don't  go  if 
you  've  got  a  split  lip — 'e  '11  make  you  die!" 

She  laughed  again  wildly  and  tempestuously,  as 
though  the  vision  of  Uncle  Grubhofer  in  his  present 
state  were  an  object  of  mirth  even  to  the  damned. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Olga.     "What  is  he  like?" 


THE  DRONE  OF  LONDON  243 

Irene  undid  a  small  reticule  she  was  carrying,  and 
took  out  an  envelope  and  wrote  a  name  and  address  on 
it;  then  she  said: 

"You  go  and  see  him.  Oh,  my  Gawd,  it  's  too  funny! 
'E  '11  make  you  die!"  and  then  she  added,  as  though  the 
priceless  jest  might  not  have  penetrated,  "Only  don't 
go  if  you  've  got  a  split  lip." 

An  electric  music-box  started  in  the  next  room,  and 
they  had  to  raise  their  voices.  Olga  drank  some  of  the 
brandy.  She  felt  in  need  of  it.  It  burnt  her  throat, 
but  its  fumes  produced  in  her  an  elevated  sense  of  her 
position.  She  wanted  to  talk  to  Irene,  to  try  and  find 
if  there  were  anything  left  underneath,  any  glimmer 
of  that  intimacy  they  had  shared  on  that  last  night  they 
had  spent  together  in  the  cottage  in  Surrey,  when  she 
had  given  her  the  eleven  pounds,  and  Irene  had  said, 
"You  didn't  ought  to  have  done  it.  I  thought  you 
were  somehow — different — "  Something  real  and  last- 
ing between  them.  But  it  had  all  vanished,  everything, 
even  the  memory  of  it  was  dim.  But  what  cruel  jest 
of  fate  was  this  that  had  given  her  certain  aspirations, 
had  given  her  talent  and  understanding,  had  led  her 
into  smooth  and  sunlit  spaces,  and  at  the  same  time  had 
crushed  the  soul  of  her  sister? 

Did  she  deserve  one  fate  and  her  sister  another? 
Were  they  not  children  of  the  same  parents?  "Was  Irene 
responsible  for  her  own  weaknesses  and  defections? 
The  organ  in  the  next  room  was  grinding  out  a  gay 
Italian  love-song  with  a  lugubrious  rhythm,  occasionally 
broken  by  a  scrunching,  grinding  noise,  as  though  the 
pain  of  expressing  these  transcendent  joys  in  this  at- 
mosphere   were    almost    too    much    for    it.     The    third 


244  OLGA  BARDEL 

woman  had  had  several  glasses  of  rum  and  milk,  and  she 
showed  a  disposition  to  be  maudlin  and  confidential. 

"Why  don't  you  drink  up  your  brandy,  dear,  and 
'ave  another?"  she  said  to  Olga,  and  then  added,  "Oh, 
Gawd!  I  s'pose  you  don't  need  it,  do  you?  I  never 
needed  it  at  one  time."  Then  she  looked  at  her  face, 
and  said,  "You  're  a  pretty  thing,  strike  me  blind  if 
you  're  not !  I  love  to  'ear  this  music,  love  it  and  'ate 
it  at  the  same  time.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean? 
.  .  .  'Ere,  do  you  know  why  I  come  to  this? 
Because  I  'm  too  fond  of  it — you  know,  everything. 
That  's  what  I  mean — too  fond  of  everything.  'Ere. 
I  'ad  a  little  boy,  pretty  as  a  flower,  'e  was.  While  I 
'ad  'im  I  run  as  straight  as  a  die.  .  .  .  D'you  know 
what  'appened?  'E  was  five  years  old.  We  was  living 
in  Willesden.  My  'usband  was  a  drunken  swine.  I 
went  out  one  morning  into  Padds  Lane — d'you  know 
it?  Suddenly  I  sees  my  little  boy  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road,  see?  I  calls  out  to  'im,  'Charlie!'  I  said. 
.  .  .  And  even  now  I  can  'ear  'is  voice.  'E  says, 
'  'Ullo,  Mummy!'  'e  says,  and  dashes  across  the  road. 
Christ !  'E  dashes  clean  into  a  van !  I  sees  'im  crushed 
right  in  front  of  my  eyes,  in  a  flash!  Oh,  Gawd!  do 
you  hear  ?  I  'd  called  'im !  I  'd  called  'im !  D '  you 
understand?  .  .  .  '  'Ullo,  Mummy!'  'e  says,  and  runs 
to  me  into  the  van  ! ' ' 

The  third  woman  was  trembling,  and  shaking  her  rum 
and  milk  round  in  her  glass;  her  eyes  were  fixed  in  a 
hard,  terrified  stare.  Almost  as  though  some  one  had 
struck  her,  Olga  heard  Irene's  voice,  saying: 

"Oh,  chuck  it,  Florrie!  Don't  make  a  fool  of  yer- 
self." 


THE  DRONE  OF  LONDON  245 

The  third  woman  did  not  heed  this  remark.  She 
drained  her  glass  and  continued : 

"When  I  got  'ome  that  evenin',  and  I  told  my 
'usband,  'e  says,  'Oh!'  just  like  that.  'Oh!'  'E 'd 
been  drinkin'  at  the  time.  If  'e  'ad n't,  I  think  I  'd 
'ave  killed  'im.  As  it  was,  I  just  slogged  'im  in  the  face, 
cut  'is  eye  open,  and  knocked  'im  out,  and  then  I  walked 
out  of  the  'ouse  and  never  went  back." 

"Oh  la,  la  la  la! 
The  gay  Posada!" 

With  fitful  starts  and  jerks  the  organ  was  endeavoring 
to  recall  to  Olga  memories  of  her  honeymoon.  It  was 
the  night  of  a  serenata.  She  and  Harry  were  lying 
huddled  together  in  a  gondola,  clasped  in  each  other's 
arms.  The  dim  profile  of  the  Santa  Maria  della  Salute 
was  silhouetted  against  the  sky.  Overhead  the  stars 
flashed  their  wireless  glitter  of  sympathetic  understand- 
ing, as  they  had  to  Troilus  and  Cressida  in  immemorial 
times.  Troy  had  droned,  as  London  droned,  and  Troy 
was  no  more.  Perhaps  a  day  would  come  when  the 
whole  drone  of  all  the  cities  living  and  dead  would  be 
expressed  in  one  note.  Wliat  was  it?  An  A?  It 
could  be  divided  and  subdivided!  Was  all  life  dom- 
inated by  this  .  unanswerable  phrase — the  Will-to-live  ? 
She  realized  that  it  was  an  infinitesimal  expression  of 
that  note,  the  words  he  breathed  in  her  ear — "Darling, 
darling,  darling,  my  darling!"  Had  he  said  anything 
else?  She  could  not  remember.  It  was  his  expression, 
the  world's  expression  of  the  desire  of  propagation. 
The  Will-to-Perpetuate.  .  .  . 

The  third  woman  was  talking  again.     She  liked  this 


246  OLGA  BARDEL 

woman,  with  her  horrible  and  human  story.  Why 
had  n  't  Irene  anything  to  say  like  that  ?  "Why  did  she 
sit  there  with  that  ghastly  slit  of  a  mouth  of  hers,  and 
grin,  and  grin,  and  grin?  and  when  the  third  woman 
said  something  lovable  and  understandable,  why  did 
Irene  interrupt  it  with  her  raucous  voice:  "Oh,  chuck 
it,  Florrie ! "  ?  The  third  woman  was  worth  a  thousand 
of  Irene.  She  was  not  yet  dead.  She  had  something 
in  her,  some  spark  of  the  divine  efflatus,  that  could  not 
be  subdued,  something  of  that  quality  that  Olga  was 
struggling  to  preserve  in  herself  and  that  she  had  sworn 
to  fight  for  in  her  son.  She  drank  some  more  of  the 
brandy,  and  then,  turning  suddenly  to  Irene,  she  said: 

"Do  you  remember  that  night  down  in  that  cottage 
in  Surrey?  The  night  I  brought  you  the  eleven 
sovereigns  ? ' ' 

She  could  see  by  her  face  that  Irene  had  honestly 
forgotten  it.  She  drank  some  more  of  the  port  wine 
that  was  in  front  of  her.     Then  she  said,  after  a  pause : 

' '  Oh,  my  Gawd !  yus,  I  remember.  I  can  almost  hear 
the  thud  of  the  old  devil's  footsteps  as  he  went  across 
the  'ill,  can't  you?"  She  took  a  cigarette  out  of  a  case 
and  lighted  it.  The  music  from  the  organ  increased  in 
volume.     Suddenly  she  turned,  and  said: 

"Why,  yes,  it  was  you  what  give  me  that  money, 
was  n  't  it  ?  D '  you  know  what  I  did  ?  I  went  off  that 
same  morning.     I  went  to  London." 

She  threw  her  head  forward,  and  laughed  hysterically. 
She  grasped  the  sleeve  of  the  waiter  who  was  passing, 
and  said: 

"Tommy,  bring  me  some  more  of  this  bloody  poison, 
darling."     Then  she  grinned  at  Olga  and  said: 


THE  DRONE  OF  LONDON  247 

"It  was  your  eleven  quid  what  give  me  the  taste  of 
this  muck.  I  wasn't  in  no  mood  to  be  sentimental. 
There  was  a  soldier  I  remember,  I  met  him  in  the  Eus- 
ton  Road.  ..."  Her  eyes  suddenly  blazed  with  anger 
because  a  passer-by  had  brushed  against  her.  She 
turned  irritably  on  her  sister  and  said : 

"You  've  always  managed  for  yourself  all  right, 
'aven't  yer?    Who  's  keeping  yer  now?" 

An  instinctive  desire  came  to  Olga  to  say,  "I  'm  being 
kept  by  a  man  at  Hampstead,"  but  she  restrained  her- 
self, and  the  third  woman  chimed  in : 

"You  're  making  a  fool  of  yourself  now,  Chadsworth. 
What  business  is  it  of  yours  whose  keep  she  is?" 

But  Olga  leaned  forward,  and  whispered  to  her  sister : 

"Irene,  is  that  true?  Was  it  the  money  I — took  that 
first  gave  you  a  taste  for — this  sort  of  life?" 

"The  money  you — what?"  sniggered  Irene.  "The 
money  you  pinched,  you  mean,  out  of  that  lady's  writ- 
ing-table. Why,  you  told  me  of  it.  Oh,  go  on!  what 
does  it  matter?  You  're  no  better  or  worse  than  the 
rest  of  us.  William,  I  ordered  a  port  about  an  hour 
ago!     For  God's  sake  buck  up  with  it,  darling." 

Other  people  were  coming  into  the  room.  It  seemed 
to  get  noisier  and  stuffier.  Irene  was  saying,  "If  you 
want  to  go  and  see  anything  really  amusing,  you  go  and 
see  Uncle  Grubhofer!" 

The  third  woman  started  talking  about  the  disappear- 
ance of  "Lily"  again,  and  the  feeling  of  faintness  once 
more  began  to  creep  over  Olga.  She  stood  up  and  said 
she  must  go.  It  occurred  to  her  afterwards  that  even 
at  that  moment  it  was  remarkable  that  her  departure 
seemed  to  affect  the  third  woman  more  than  it  did  Irene. 


248  OLGA  BARDEIi 

She  felt  attracted  by  this  wayward,  primitive  creature; 
but  Irene  sat  there  grinning,  remorseless,  and  expres- 
sionless. Olga  knew  that  as  far  as  she  was  concerned 
Irene  was  dead  to  her.  Ah !  if  she  had  only  given  one 
flicker  of  understanding,  some  little  inflection  of  the 
voice  that  showed  that  she  remembered,  that  she  realized, 
that  she  had  any  human  tie;  even  if  she  had  only  lis- 
tened to  the  third  woman's  story  with  a  gleam  of  sym- 
pathy, instead  of  crashing  upon  it  with  that  cruel, 
''Don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself,"  Or  was  it  that  under 
the  grinning  mask  of  Irene's  lay  the  greatest  horror  of 
all,  the  dread  of  her  own  self-pity,  if  the  floodgates  of 
human  feeling  were  ever  loosened  in  her?  Was  it  pos- 
sible to  destroy — everything?  .  .  . 

It  was  a  quarter  to  eight  when  she  arrived  home. 
The  maid  who  let  her  in  said  that  the  master  was  back, 
and  had  brought  two  gentlemen  home  to  dinner.  They 
were  in  the  drawing-room.  She  went  up-stairs  and 
changed  her  frock.  When  she  had  removed  her  bodice, 
she  suddenly  looked  at  her  shoulders  and  arms  in  a 
mirror.  The  vision  seemed  to  suspend  her  power  of 
action.  She  gazed  at  herself  for  some  moments  in  the 
half-light  and  muttered: 

''Oh,  God!  is  it  possible?" 

Then  rapidly  throwing  a  dressing-gown  round  her, 
she  went  into  another  room  where  the  child  was  sleep- 
ing. The  nurse  had  left  him.  He  was  lying  curled  up 
with  one  of  his  tiny  arms  hanging  free.  Her  bosom 
heaved  wildly  as  she  held  her  face  close  to  his,  as  though 
drawing  strength  from  the  smell  of  his  warm  firm  flesh. 
She  kissed  the  down  on  his  head  again  and  again,  and 
then  returned  and  finished  her  dressing. 


THE  DRONE  OF  LONDON  249 

When  she  entered  the  drawing-room,  her  husband  was 
just  walking  toward  the  door.  He  said  in  his  calm 
suave  voice: 

"Hullo,  dear,  you  are  late.  I  was  just  coming  to  look 
for  you.  You  know  Boder,  don't  you?  This  is  Mr, 
Stave," 

A  large,  red-faced  man,  with  curly  hair  and  a  tor- 
toise-shell monocle  in  his  right  eye,  came  forward  with 
rather  a  fierce  expression,  and  said: 

"Charmed  to  meet  you,  dear  Mrs.  Streatham." 

She  knew  him  by  sight.  He  was  the  editor  of  a 
monthly  review.  A  gong  was  going  outside  and  she 
took  the  large  man's  arm,  and  they  all  passed  through 
to  the  dining-room. 

"It  's  been  a  nice  day,"  he  remarked. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "it  has — very  nice.  I  've  been  out, 
I  've  been  listening  to  the  drone  of  London." 

"Eh?"  said  the  editor.  "The  drone  of  London! 
Oh !  fancy  that !  That  's  very  interestin '.  We  've  been 
playing  golf.  Your  husband  is  uncommonly  good  on 
the  green." 


CHAPTER  V 

AMBITION 

HARRY'S    mother   and    eldest   sister   had   just 
driven    away,    after    one    of    their   periodical 
visits,   and   as  usual  had   left  the  nerves   of 
Harry 's  wife  all  on  edge.     She  stood  by  the  French  win- 
dow looking  on  to  the  lawn,  and  her  husband  was  glancing 
at  a  magazine  and  smoking.     There  had  been  a  certain 
amount  of  criticism  with  regard  to  minor  details  of  the 
child's  bringing  up,  and  one  remark  of  the  elder  Mrs. 
Streatham's    had    rankled    through    her    mind.     "Of 
course,  my  dear,  you  can  hardly  be  expected  to  have 
everything     entirely     satisfactory     with     your     first." 
First!     She   looked   at  her  husband,   and   it  suddenly 
occurred  to  her  that  his  face  had  filled  out.     It  was 
rather  too  sleek  and  comfortable  for  the  face  of  a  god. 
She  had  a  sudden  vision  of  her  life  to  come.     This  was 
her   first   child.     There    would    be   more,    and   perhaps 
more.     She  would  be  the  eternal  matron  in  the  Hamp- 
stead  drawing-room.     She  noticed  the  clean  white  panel- 
ing, and  the  satin-wood  furniture,  and  the  neat  orderli- 
ness of  the  room  with  its  dark-green  hangings  and  the 
large   silver    tray    whereon    the    things    from    tea    still 
reposed,   reminding  her  of  her  function   as  a  hostess. 
There  would  be  more  of  this,  years  and  years  of  it, 
dispensing  tea,  bringing  up  children  in  the  correct  way, 

250 


AMBITION  251 

keeping  things  orderly,  keeping  orderly  herself,  listening 
to  the  refined  talk  of  her  dinner  table,  being  "the  mis- 
tress" of  the  servants  and  the  master.  Sometimes  when 
the  guests  were  well  fed,  and  they  were  in  the  mood  for 
it,  she  would  be  asked  to  play  the  piano  to  them.  And 
then  she  could  almost  hear  the  euphuistie  tones  of  their 
voices : 

"Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Streatham,  how  perfectly  fascinating! 
is  that  Scriabine?  I  adore  Russian  music — so  passion- 
ate! so  elusive!" 

She  suddenly  said: 

"Harry!" 

He  looked  up  at  her  from  the  magazine.  For  the 
fraction  of  a  second  she  thought  she  detected  an  expres- 
sion of  furtive  suspicion  on  his  face.  She  was  conscious 
that  ever  since  that  night  in  Paris  when  Karl  had  paid 
his  visit,  there  had  come  between  them  a  certain  some- 
thing she  could  hardly  divine.  There  had  never  been 
any  quarrel,  and  nothing  more  had  ever  been  said  about 
Karl.  She  knew  very  definitely  that  Mrs.  Streatham 
and  the  sisters  held  the  view  that  Harry  had  married 
"out  of  his  class."  Was  it  some  unexpressed  feeling 
of  this  sort  that  was  occasionally  reflected  in  his  face 
when  he  looked  up  at  her  like  that?  She  went  over  to 
the  settee,  and  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  from  behind, 
and  rested  her  cheek  against  the  top  of  his  head,  and 
said: 

"Harry,  we  mustn't  stagnate,  must  we?" 

She  felt  him  laughing  in  an  uncomfortable  way  as 
he  replied : 

"Stagnate!     What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  darling?" 

"I  mean,"  she  answered,  "that  we  must  always  bo 


252  OLGA  BARDEL 

doing  things,  going  on.     Do  you  know  what  I  mean, 
dear?     We  mustn't  get — satisfied,  must  we?" 

He  laughed  again,  and  said: 

' '  Good  Heavens !  Do  you  want  to  move  into  a  bigger 
house  ? ' ' 

She  rested  her  cheek  against  his. 

"No,  no,"  she  said.  "You  know  quite  well  I  don't 
mean  that.  I  should  be  contented  with  two  rooms  any- 
where. It  's  ourselves  I  mean.  I  sometimes  think  we 
do  want  to  move  into  a  bigger  house  in  a  sense.  You 
haven't  been  working  very  hard  lately,  have  you, 
Harry?" 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  answered,  "what  are  you  talking 
about?  One  can't  compose  every  day  from  nine  to  six, 
like  a  clerk,  can  one?" 

"No,"  she  said;  "but  it  's  not  only  that.  But  there 
comes  a  time — Levitch  used  to  say  to  me  that  one  must 
always  be  able  to  look  at  life  like  a  child;  you  know — 
keep  on  re-creating,  thinking  over  again,  keeping  one- 
self susceptible  to  impressions.  After  a  time  one  loses 
that  faculty  if  one  is  not  careful.  One  becomes 
'atrophied' — is  that  the  word?" 

"Do  you  feel,"  said  Streatham,  "that  you  don't  get 
sufficient  intellectual  stimulus  here?" 

' '  Heavens !  yes — too  much  of  it,  of  a  kind.  But  it  's 
not  that.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  understand  more 
clearly  what  I  mean.  I  'm  so  bad  at  expressing  myself. 
I  want  to  play  more — I  want  to  get  on.  But  it  's  not 
only  that,  I  think.  It 's  when  one  gets  satisfied,  one — 
goes  down  the  sink,  as  it  were.  I  'm  sure  of  that ;  more 
sure  of  that  than  anything." 

Harry  shook  himself  free  and  stood  up. 


AMBITION  253 

"I  'm  afraid,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "that  your  meta- 
physics are  a  little  obscure.  I  really  don't  know  what 
you  want,  except  that  you  apparently  want  us  to  be  both 
dissatisfied.  Good  Lord !  it  's  a  rotten  world.  I  sup- 
pose we  all  are  dissatisfied  at  heart.  But  the  whole  idea 
of  philosophy  is  to  combat  this.  What  is  'to  be  phil- 
osophic' if  it  isn't  to  be  resigned  to  the  ugliness  and 
silliness  of  things?" 

"But  by  being  dissatisfied,"  she  protested,  "I  don't 
mean  cynical — like  that — that  is  being  dissatisfied  with 
other  people.  I  mean  being  dissatisfied  with  oneself — 
searching  inside  oneself  for — finer  things.  I  don 't  think 
the  world  is  rotten.  I  think  it  's  very  beautiful.  I  find 
amongst  all  sorts  of  people,  vile  and  vicious  people  some 
of  them,  qualities  that  I  envy.  They  're  not  rotten. 
There  's  nothing  rotten  except — being  satisfied." 

And  then  the  god  performed  a  little  act  that  was  never 
forgotten,  and  which  brought  the  whole  edifice  of  his 
godhead  crashing  to  the  earth.  lie  stretched  himself 
and  examined  the  backs  of  his  long  white  hands.  For 
the  moment  he  appeared  to  be  going  to  reply,  then  he 
turned  his  hands  over,  and  made  a  little  noise  that  can 
only  be  expressed — 

"  'M — 'm, "  the  second  "  'm  "  being  a  tone  higher  than 
the  first.  It  was  a  little  action,  but  it  distinctly  con- 
veyed this  meaning: 

"What  on  earth  is  the  good  of  me  talking  to  a  child 
like  you?  I  've  discussed  all  these  elementary  things 
years  ago — when  I  was  at  Gueldstone's  house  at  Win- 
chester. I  've  discussed  them  and  gone  beyond  them. 
It  would  simply  bore  me  to  death  to  talk  philosophy  with 
you.     I  've  read  Plato,  and  Aristotle,  and  every  one  up 


254  OLGA  BARBEL 

to  Nietszche  and  Bergson.  And  you  've  read— nothing. 
You  know  nothing.  I  feed  you,  and  clothe  you,  and  give 
you  every  comfort,  and  your  business  is  to  love  me,  and 
look  after  my  children.  If  you  knew  a  little  more — 
well  and  good,  but  as  you  don't,  you  can't  possibly  ex- 
pect me  to  teach  you." 

She  did  not  say  anything  more  after  that,  but  her 
lips  were  a  shade  paler  as  she  moved  towards  the  door. 
There  she  stopped,  and  looked  back  at  him,  but  his  eyes 
were  concentrated  on  the  delicate  modeling  of  his  finger- 
tips, and  she  went  out. 

From  that  day  she  started  to  build  a  world  within  a 
world.  She  worked  hard  at  her  piano,  and  went  down 
to  see  her  agent.  Concert  Director  Whitbread  was  very 
desirous  that  she  should  give  more  recitals,  and  sug- 
gested a  scheme  of  spending  a  large  sum  of  money  that 
savored  of  M.  Pensiver. 

"Of  course,  Miss  Bardel,  you  've  lost  ground,"  he  said. 
"It's  always  bad  to  have  to  cancel  engagements,  and 
the  public  soon  forgets.  I  should  suggest  giving  three 
recitals  and  engaging  the  London  Imperial  Orchestra 
for  an  orchestral  concert.  I  think  they  would  guarantee 
in  exchange  to  engage  you  for  one  of  their  series  next 
season." 

He  said  that  with  two  hundred  pounds  he  thought  he 
could  establish  her  once  again  and  make  her  a  popular 
favorite.  She  reported  the  matter  to  Harry,  and  that 
gentleman  said: 

"Of  course,  darling,  it  would  be  awfully  jolly  to  do 
it.     I  wish  we  could." 

But  then  it  appeared  that  there  were  difficulties. 
The  Streathams,  it  seemed,  had  been  living  above  their 


AMBITION  255 

income  even  before  the  child  was  born,  and  that  event, 
with  its  concomitant  demands  from  doctors,  specialists, 
and  nurses,  had  placed  poor  Harry  in  a  very  difficult 
financial  position.  It  occurred  to  her  to  suggest  drastic 
reforms  in  the  home.  To  move  to  a  smaller  house,  to 
reduce  the  number  of  servants,  and  to  live  more  simply, 
but  she  knew  that  these  changes  would  make  her  husband 
very  unhappy.  She  thought  of  asking  Mrs.  Fittleworth 
to  help  her,  but  this  she  knew  would  be  a  stigma  upon 
his  family  pride,  an  indignity  he  would  never  agree  to. 
She  gave  up  the  idea  of  playing  in  public  for  the  time, 
and  contented  herself  with  working  for  the  joy  in  the 
thing  itself. 

Sometimes  she  would  go  down  and  visit  Mr.  Casewell, 
and  play  to  him  and  talk  "shop,"  and  occasionally  she 
went  alone  to  Sir  Philip  Ballater's.  He  had  a  splendid 
music-room,  which  he  had  suggested  that  she  should  use 
at  any  time.  If  she  wanted  to  work  seriously,  without 
interruption  of  any  sort,  she  found  that  that  was  the 
best  thing  to  do.  In  addition,  the  house  had  a  curiously 
steadying  effect  on  her.  It  was  so  silent  and  passion- 
less. Sometimes  Sir  Philip  himself  would  come  and 
listen  to  her,  and  somehow  she  did  not  mind  him  being 
there.  He  seemed  to  reflect  a  placid  orientation  of  the 
finely  wrought  earthenware,  something  toned  by  cen- 
turies of  cultivated  eclecticism,  almost  impersonal  and 
universal. 

Once  or  twice  she  went  to  see  John  Braille,  and  she 
was  amazed  to  discover  a  fact  conceraing  him.  He  had 
always  shown  a  remarkable  insight  and  a  sympathetic 
knowledge  of  music,  but  to  her  surprise  she  found  that 
he  had  been  to  every  recital  she  had  given  in  London, 


256  OLGA  BARDEL 

and  he  seemed  to  remember  nearly  everything  she  had 
played.  She  found  a  curious  satisfaction  in  telling  him 
little  things  about  herself,  and  it  was  he  more  than 
any  one  who  encouraged  her  to  work.  He  had  also  that 
quality  that  stimulated  the  mind.  He  was  tremendously 
virile,  and  she  came  away  from  her  visits  to  him  feeling 
buoyant  and  ambitious. 

She  had  often  thought  of  Irene's  suggestion  that  she 
should  go  and  see  Uncle  Grubhofer,  but  had  so  far  been 
afraid.  There  was  something  about  Irene's  remark, 
"Don't  go  if  you  've  got  a  split  lip;  it  will  make  you 
die!"  that  caused  Olga  to  shiver.  She  could  not  bring 
herself  to  make  this  visit.  She  had  one  day  thought  of 
asking  Harry  to  accompany  her,  but  she  knew  that  if  it 
were  in  any  way  unpleasant,  the  breach  between  them 
would  become  wider.  Moreover,  Karl  had  turned  up 
again  with  another  pathetic  story.  The  man  with  whom 
he  was  in  partnership  had  robbed  him  and  disappeared. 
Karl  was  starving  in  London.  There  was  another  very 
painful  evening,  Karl  having  pushed  his  way  in  while 
Harry's  sisters  were  there,  and  he  seemed  inclined  to 
make  a  scene.  He  was  eventually  got  rid  of  with  four 
pounds,  which  was  all  the  available  cash  in  the  house. 
But  the  affair  had  had  unpleasant  consequences. 
Harry's  family  had  taken  the  matter  up,  and  were 
anxious  to  put  the  police  on  Karl's  track.  They  thought 
it  was  "too  bad  that  poor  dear  Harry  should  be  troubled 
in  this  way."  Olga  had  objected  to  the  procedure,  and 
an  ice-cold  enmity  immediately  sprang  up  between  her 
and  the  family,  an  enmity  that  nothing  would  be  ever 
likely  to  assuage. 

From  the  day  when  she  had  spoken  to  Harry  about 


AMBITION  257 

being  "satisfied,"  he  seemed  to  keep  a  little  more  aloof 
from  her,  but  she  observed  that  he  set  to  work  in  a 
rather  furtive  manner  upon  a  "tone  poem"  that  he  had 
started  the  previous  winter.  He  was  always  secretive 
about  his  compositions.  He  only  discussed  them  and 
played  them  to  Eric  Shaughan  and  one  or  two  other 
protagonists  of  a  very  advanced  school.  They  spoke  in 
terms  of  pitying  contempt  for  all  other  schools.  She 
knew  that  they  had  a  mild  admiration  for  "Wagner  and 
found  certain  old-fashioned  virtues  in  Beethoven,  but 
she  had  heard  Harry  say  that  "Schumann  bored  him 
to  tears";  neither  did  they  take  any  great  interest  in 
the  work  of  the  other  older  composers.  They  discussed 
Strauss  and  other  modern  composers,  and  even  then 
without  enthusiasm.  ^Moreover,  they  all  held,  she  knew, 
a  contempt  for  what  they  called  merely  "performance." 
She  was  fully  aware  that  it  did  not  really  interest  Harry 
to  hear  her  play.  He  was  onlj''  interested  in  what  she 
played,  and  when  it  happened  to  be  something  in  his 
own  rather  neurotic  line. 

It  was  therefore  an  unfortunate  fact  that  the  thing 
which  should  have  been  their  greatest  bond  of  sympathy 
— music — was  that  which  tended  to  alienate  them. 

One  afternoon  she  was  playing  a  chorale  of  Cesar 
Franck.  It  was  a  thing  she  had  been  working  at  for 
some  time.  She  was  conscious  that  she  was  playing  it 
remarkably  well.  She  got  the  full  deep  organ  quality 
that  the  piece  demanded.  She  listened  for  it  coming 
and  heard  it  die  away  against  the  four  walls  of  the  room. 

A  sudden  feeling  of  depression  came  to  her.  What 
was  the  good  of  playing  like  that  to  four  walls?  "Would 
she  never  again  feel  the  electric  response  of  a  listening 


258  OLGA  BARDEL 

crowd?  Were  these  four  walls  to  be  the  tomb  of  her 
ambitions?  She  wanted  so  much  to  give  all  that  she 
felt  with  regard  to  this  chorale  to  some  one  who  would 
want  to  receive  it,  but  the  music  died  away  against 
bricks  and  furniture.  She  got  up  from  the  piano  and 
went  to  the  window.  It  was  a  gray  day  and  the  wind 
was  turning  the  leaves  of  the  mulberry-tree.  She 
thought  she  would  go  over  to  Sir  Philip  Ballater's  and 
practise  there.  And  then  it  occurred  to  her  that  even 
there  the  sound  would  only  die  away.  It  is  true  it 
would  go  further,  and  percolate  among  the  limbo  of 
centuries;  it  might  even  pass  through  Sir  Philip  him- 
self, but  it  would  eventually  die  against  marble  and 
inanimate  things.  And  then  suddenly  she  thought  of 
John  Braille.  .  .  . 

The  large  leaves  of  the  mulberry-tree  were  slowly 
turning  and  flapping  each  other  and  occasionally  reveal- 
ing the  unripe  fruit.  She  would  like  to  convey  those 
large  organ  tones  to  John  Braille.  They  would  flood 
his  soul  and  something  would  spring  to  life.  She  could 
almost  see  the  sensitive,  quivering  nostril,  the  strong  fine 
lines  of  the  face,  and  the  keen  sympathetic  eyes.  He 
would  understand.  There  would  be  little  need  to  speak. 
He  was  so  sure,  so — wonderfully  in  tune. 

The  day  was  drawing  in.  He  would  be  finishing  his 
work  now.  It  was  almost  too  dark  to  paint  already. 
She  would  go  and  see  him.  She  went  up-stairs  and  put 
on  her  hat,  and  got  the  maid  to  telephone  for  a  cab. 

In  twenty  minutes'  time  she  was  at  the  door  of  his 
studio  near  Portland  Place.  "When  she  entered  the 
studio,  she  saw  him  in  the  half-light.  He  had  on  a  very 
painty  overall,  and  he  was  vigorously  washing  out  some 


AMBITION  250 

brushes  at  a  sink.  He  looked  up,  and  she  thought  he 
started,  like  one  awakened  from  a  dream.  He  smiled 
a  welcome  to  her  and  just  murmured  "Ah!" 

He  wiped  his  hands  on  a  towel.  Then  he  pulled  a 
chair  up  to  the  hearth,  where  a  log  fire  was  burning, 
and  turned  on  an  electric  light  standard  on  an  oak  table 
by  the  wall. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  he  said.  He  spoke  as  though 
he  had  expected  her.  On  an  easel  in  the  middle  of  the 
studio  was  the  freshly  painted  head  of  an  elderly  woman. 
He  followed  her  eye  fixed  upon  it. 

"This  is  Lady  Schuck,"  he  said,  "wife  of  the  dealer! 
Please  don't  let  it  worry  you.  I  'm  afraid  it  's  a  shock- 
ing pot-boiler." 

"It  's  fine,"  she  answered.  "I  envy  you.  Tell  me, 
Mr.  Braille,  is  it  wicked  to  be  ambitious?" 

"I  think  it  's  wicked  not  to  be,"  he  laughed. 

"I  'm  tired  of  playing  to  four  walls,"  she  said.  "I 
don't  think  I  'm  greedily  ambitious.  I  don't  want  to 
be  an  infant  prodigy  again.  But  I  want  what  I  c^  do 
to  get  through  to  some  one.  Do  you  know  what  I 
mean?" 

Braille  looked  at  her  with  one  of  his  keen  glances. 
Then  he  drew  up  a  stool  and  sat  opposite  her  by  the 
fireplace. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "you  must  play.  It  's  absurd. 
All  art  is  a  telepathic  business ;  it  's  just  what  we  convey 
to  others.  One  has  to  'get  through, '  as  you  say.  I  could 
certainly  not  paint  a  stroke  if  I  thought  that  no  one  would 
ever  see  what  I  did." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  think  that, ' '  she  said. 

"Let  's  think  what  it  really  is,"  continued  Braille 


260  OLGA  BARDEL 

meditatively.  "I  suppose  it  's  a  development  of  our 
primal  love  instinct.  I  walk  along  a  country  lane  and  I 
see  a  rick  against  a  ploughed  field,  and  I  think  to  myself, 
'By  Jove,  that  's  jolly ! '  I  hug  the  vision  for  some  time, 
but  it  's  not  enough.  I  think,  'By  Jove,  old  Tony 
Saunders  would  like  that.'  I  am  filled  with  a  desire  to 
remind  Tony  Saunders  how  jolly  a  rick  looks  against  a 
ploughed  field,  to  share  my  vision  with  him.  But  not 
only  Tony  Saunders ;  there  's  Jimmy  Carthill — he  'd  like 
it  too — and  a  lot  of  other  people.  I  am  immediately  ob- 
sessed with  a  crazy  passion  to  get  my  vision  down,  to 
make  a  permanent  thing  of  it,  so  that  I  may  give  it  to 
others.  Art  is  essentially  a  question  of  'giving' — one 
must  give  all  the  time.  It  is  the  same  with  you.  Some 
passage  of  Beethoven  fills  you  with  an  uncontrollable 
desire  to  share  the  feeling  it  produces  on  you  with  others, 
to  fill  the  world  with  it.  To  practise  always  within 
four  walls,  with  no  hope  of  'getting  through,'  would 
send  any  one  mad.  It  would  be  spiritual  starvation. 
Too  horrible  to  think  of," 

"I  think  that  too,"  said  Olga  eagerly.  "It  's  so  nice 
of  you  to  talk  like  this." 

Braille  laughed,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  for 
some  moments.     Suddenly  he  said : 

"Play  me  something  now." 

She  smiled  at  him,  although  her  eyes  were  moist. 

"Would  you  really  like  it?"  she  asked. 

He  got  up  quickly  and  walked  to  the  grand  piano  in 
the  corner  of  the  studio,  and  opened  the  lid.  Then  he 
came  back,  and  took  her  cloak  from  her,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice: 


AMBITION  261 

"You  know  I  should  love  it." 

She  took  oft'  her  gloves  and  sighed.  Then,  going  to 
the  piano,  she  sat  down,  and  played  the  ehorale  of  Cesar 
F'ranck.  When  she  had  finished  she  looked  at  him  out 
of  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  He  was  standing  very 
straight  on  the  hearth-rug  and  gazing  at  the  ground. 
There  was  something  knightly  about  his  pose,  as  though 
he  were  holding  himself  four-square  against  the  tumult 
of  a  great  remorse.  She  rose  from  the  piano,  and  for 
some  reason  they  could  not  speak  to  each  other.  It  was 
as  though  something  had  happened  of  which  they  were 
afraid  to  speak.  She  came  and  stood  by  the  fire,  and 
rested  her  toes  on  the  steel  fender.    At  last  she  said: 

"Mr.  Braille,  I  have  an  old  uncle  I  want  to  visit.  I 
have  not  seen  him  for  years.  I  'm  afraid  he  is  a  ter- 
rible old  man,  and  he  may  be  ill — I  don't  know.  But 
honestly  I  am  afraid  to  go  by  myself,  and  I  do  not  think 
Plarry  would  care  to  go  with  me.  I  wonder  whether 
you  would  accompany  me  one  day  ? ' ' 

Braille  passed  one  hand  over  his  brow,  and  then  said : 

' '  Of  course.     Where  does  he  live  1 ' ' 

She  took  the  envelope  that  Irene  had  written  on,  out 
of  her  bag.  It  was  an  address  in  Netting  Hill.  She 
came  very  close  to  him  and  showed  him  the  envelope. 
He  gripped  it  firmly  and  took  it  to  the  light. 

' '  Notting  Hill ! "  he  said.     ' '  Why  not  go  now  ? ' ' 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock,  and  Olga  had  to  be  back  for 
dinner  at  eight.  They  decided  that  it  would  be  just 
possible,  by  taking  cabs  each  way.  As  they  drove  along 
she  told  him  all  about  this  Uncle  Grubhofer  in  little 
jerky  sentences,  and  also  about  the  rest  of  her  family. 


262  OLGA  BAEDEL 

The  cab  drew  up  at  a  buff  brick  house  that  overlooked 
a  canal.  It  was  almost  dark.  A  young  hollow-cheeked 
woman  opened  the  door,  and  peered  at  them. 

''Could  I  see  Mr.  Grubhofer?"  asked  Olga  faintly. 

The  woman  stared  at  them  vacantly,  then  she  went  to 
the  foot  of  the  staircase,  and  called  out : 

"Mrs.  Mahoney!" 

There  was  no  answer,  so  she  clattered  up  into  the  dark- 
ness, and  left  them  at  the  door  watching  the  flickering 
gas-jet,  that  threatened  to  be  blown  right  out,  and  con- 
scious of  the  comfort  of  each  other's  presence.  They 
heard  voices  up-stairs,  and  then  the  woman  returned  and 
said: 

"What  might  ye  be  wanting  with  Mr,  Grubhofer  at 
all?" 

Olga  answered: 

"I  am  his  niece,  Olga  Bardel.  I  would  like  to  see 
him." 

The  woman  stared  at  her  again,  and  then  once  more 
mounted  the  stairs.  There  was  more  talking,  and  then 
the  voice  called  down: 

*  *  Will  you  be  coming  up  here  then  ? ' ' 

They  entered  and  Braille  closed  the  front  door.  Olga 
went  first,  but  he  kept  close  behind.  At  the  top  of  the 
landing,  on  the  right,  was  a  room  lighted  by  a  candle. 
There  were  two  women  there,  and  the  one  who  had  let 
them  in  came  out  and  passed  by  them  down  the  stairs. 
The  other  was  an  old  woman  with  short  gray  hair,  and 
an  aquiline  face,  with  dark  eyes  like  a  bird's.  She  was 
sitting  on  a  rocking-chair  by  a  meager  grate,  and  she 
did  not  attempt  to  rise.     She  called  out  in  a  shrill  voice : 

"And  who  is  this  ye  '11  be  bringing  with  ye?     Olga 


AMBITION  263 

Bardel  '11  visit  y'  old  uncle,  is  it?  And  he  dying  and 
alone  in  's  old  days. ' ' 

Olga  did  not  know  who  the  old  woman  was,  but  she 
said: 

* '  Dying !  Is  it — really  so — so  bad  as  that  ?  May  I  see 
him?" 

"Ay,"  said  the  old  woman.  "Come  and  feast  your 
eyes  on  the  lovely  sight — come  and  see  the  poor  boy  pass- 
ing out  to  beyond.  Who  would  be  helping  him  now  but 
Ellen  jNIahoney?"  She  stood  up,  and  held  the  candle 
close  to  Olga 's  face,  and  said : 

"Ay,  the  spit  and  image  ye  be  of  that  same  troll.  Ye 
have  the  same  cow's  eyes  'ud  lure  me  boy  from  me  in 
the  old  days  and  then  leave  him  for  that  spavined  spawn 
of  Israel — Nathan  Bardel — lure  him  and  break  him, 
would  ye  ? " 

She  suddenly  raised  her  voice,  and  led  the  way 
through  a  folding-door  into  another  room. 

"He  's  lying  here  now,  the  pretty  baby.  Come  and 
see  the  pretty  sight,  Olga  Bardel — " 

The  three  of  them  passed  through  the  door.  The  inner 
room  was  larger,  and  was  lighted  by  five  large  candles, 
that  illumined  a  bed  of  massive  proportions.  On  the 
pillow  was  the  dark  masque  of  a  head,  with  the  eyes 
opened  watching  them.  Olga  gasped,  and  for  some  rea- 
son remembered  one  of  the  last  occasions  she  had  seen 
Uncle  Grubhofer  very  distinctly.  It  was  when  he  was 
greedily  eating  off  a  plate  in  a  palatial  hotel  in  the  Mid- 
lands. It  seemed — not  very  long  ago.  How  strange  it 
was !  How  wonderfully  serene  and  quiet  he  looked — al- 
most majestic.  His  cheeks  were  hollow,  and  his  gray 
hair  and  beard  seemed  darker,  and  lent  to  his  face  a 


264  OLGA  BAEDEt 

patriarchal  dignity.  All  the  passion,  and  malice,  and 
greed  had  passed  out  of  him.  He  lay  there  watching 
and  waiting,  in  an  impenetrable  repose.  Something  told 
her  that  he  would  never  speak  again,  never  move;  he 
would  lie  there  till  the  time  came  when  he  would  glide 
away  into  the  shadows.  She  suddenly  thought  with  a 
shiver  of  Irene's  remark,  "He  '11  make  you  die!  Don't 
go  if  you  Ve  got  a  split  lip ! "  Was  it  possible  to  be  more 
inhuman  than  that  ?  Was  every  shred  of  hope  in  Irene 
crushed?  or  was  this  the  last  cynical  cry  of  a  soul  that 
was  afraid  of  itself? 

She  approached  the  bed,  and  touched  one  of  the  arms 
hanging  straight  and  stiff  outside  the  quilt.  She  mur- 
mured quietly: 

**Uncle!" 

The  unseeing  eyes  blinked  at  her,  and  she  was  not  ter- 
rified. It  seemed  that  all  terror  was  dead,  all  remorse, 
everything  vile.  Yet  in  the  background  there  raged  the 
dull  reverberation  of  a  spent  storm.  The  voice  of  the 
old  woman  was  saying,  "Ay,  you  may  call  the  pretty  one. 
Call  till  your  crow's  throat  rusts.  He  '11  never  come 
back  to  ye.  And  the  Blessed  Saints  '11  know  it  was  Ellen 
Mahoney  herself  who  nursed  him  when  he  was  called, 
not  the  dark  troll  of  the  city  of  sin.  Ay!  and  himself 
knows  it,  and  his  lips  have  prayed  to  the  Mother  of  God 
of  her." 

Who  was  this  old  w^oman?  What  strange  romance 
of  the  past  was  here  being  shouted  across  the  years  ?  She 
looked  at  John  Braille,  and  she  believed  that  in  the  sud- 
den glance  that  they  exchanged  they  shared  a  common 
vision.  It  was  of  her  mother,  "the  dark  troll  of  the  city 
of  sin." 


AMBITION  265 

What  was  she  like,  this  mother  of  hers?  In  appear- 
ance— according  to  the  old  woman — the  "spit  and  im- 
age" of  Olga  herself.  What  loves  and  passions  had 
swayed  her  life  ?  What  was  he  to  her,  this  figure  dying 
on  the  bed?  Was  it  possible  that  at  one  time  he  was 
young,  and  comely,  and  strong  ?  Perhaps  her  lover  ?  She 
remembered  having  seen  in  a  drawer  at  Canning  Town  a 
faded  photograph  of  Uncle  Grubhofer,  which  Irene  said 
was  taken  when  he  was  forty.  He  wore  a  curious  stock 
and  peg-top  trousers,  and  his  face  was  firmer  and  fuller 
than  it  became  in  later  years.  He  had  Dundreary 
whiskers  and  there  was  the  suggestion  that  he  was  by 
no  means  dissatisfied  with  his  appearance,  and  that  he 
lavished  considerable  thought  upon  it.  Something  must 
have  happened  that  suddenly  loosened  all  his  moral  fiber, 
made  him  desperate  of  himself,  the  plaything  of  some 
wilful  passion.  Was  he  really  her  uncle  ?  She  thought 
of  her  father,  Nathan  Bardel,  with  his  mild,  appealing 
eyes.  She  remembered  how  bitterly  Uncle  Grubhofer 
always  spoke  of  him,  bitterly  and  vindictively,  as 
though  the  hate  of  him  colored  all  his  actions.  As  she 
looked  back  on  those  days  it  appeared  as  though  Uncle 
Grubhofer  pursued  a  deliberate  policy  of  spite  and  hatred 
upon  the  children,  as  though  he  rejoiced  at  every  evi- 
dence of  vileness  on  their  part,  and  laid  cunning  traps  to 
keep  them  so,  as  though  he  were  not  merely  satisfied 
with  the  wretchedness  of  their  bodies,  but  as  though  he 
wanted  to  destroy  their  souls. 

These  thoughts  flashed  through  Olga's  mind,  prompted 
by  the  ravings  of  the  old  woman  with  the  candle. 

Ah,  God !  what  was  this  love  that  outlived  all  the 
stress  of  these  tumultuous  passions  ?     The  old  woman  too 


266  OLGA  BARDEIi 

had  felt  the  glow  of  youth ;  doubtless,  in  gay  rooms  she 
too  had  danced,  with  "dark  carnations  in  her  hair,"  her 
blood  had  stirred  to  the  rhythm  of  the  strings.  She 
too  had  known  the  pangs  of  love,  of  jealousy,  despair. 
They  had  left  her  worn,  battered,  like  the  husk  of  some 
dim  passion.  What  was  it  that  made  her  stand  there, 
holding  the  candle  like  a  fiery  star  above  her,  content 
that  in  the  end,  she — and  she  alone — found  beauty  in 
the  ravages  of  death,  content  that  it  was  she  alone  who 
had  drawn  from  those  lips  the  prayer  "to  the  Mother 
of  God  of  her"? 

How  fierce  she  looked!  the  animate  eyes  belying  the 
tremulo  of  the  quavering  voice. 

She  could  not  understand  a  lot  of  what  the  old  woman 
said,  but  she  heard  for  the  first  time  that  it  was  her 
birth  that  caused  her  mother's  death.  Her  mother,  it 
seemed,  was  a  faithless,  irresponsible  hussy  who  mixed  in 
vile  company,  danced,  sang,  drank,  and  knew  no  mas- 
ter. She  left  behind  her  a  trail  of  sorrow,  sin,  and 
broken  hearts.  It  appeared  that  she  had  lured  Uncle 
Grubhofer  from  the  arms  of  his  bride-elect,  lured  him 
away,  destroyed  him,  and  left  him. 

Olga  could  not  stand  to  hear  this  story,  and  she  could 
not  believe  it.  She  stood  there  dazed,  and  trying  not  to 
listen  to  the  old  woman.  She  was  conscious  after  a  time 
that  the  strong  hands  of  John  Braille  were  supporting 
her  arm,  and  he  was  leading  her  downstairs.  He  had 
said  or  done  something  to  quieten  the  old  woman,  for 
they  passed  down  the  stairs  in  silence,  and  at  the  door 
the  younger  woman  curtsied  and  called  John  Braille 
"Your  honor." 

The  cab  was  waiting,  and  when  they  entered  it  she  was 


AMBITION  267 

tremendously  alive  to  the  comforting  virility  of  his  con- 
tact. She  felt  very  shaken  by  the  experience,  and  she 
still  clung  to  his  arm.  She  kept  feasting  her  eyes  on  the 
clean-cut  sanity  of  his  face,  and  drawing  strength  from 
it. 

Was  it  possible  that  her  mother  was  really  like  that? 
and  if  so,  what  of  herself?  She  suddenly  thought  of 
Harry,  What  would  he  think  if  he  knew?  How  would 
he  have  behaved  if  he  had  been  there  ? 

"I  'm  afraid  you  '11  be  thundering  late  for  your  din- 
ner," said  Braille's  clear  voice. 

She  sighed  and  gave  a  little  gasp  of  relief.  This  sud- 
den appeal  to  material,  every-day  things  steadied  her. 
She  tried  to  laugh,  and  said : 

"Yes,  I  shall  have  to  invent  some  excuse."  And 
then  she  added: 

"I  don't  think  Harry  likes  me — visiting  my  rela- 
tions, ' ' 

"I  don't  think  your  Uncle  Grubhofer  is  any  more  a 
relation  than  I  am,"  answered  Braille,  and  he  looked 
straight  out  of  the  cab, 

"  Ah !  You  think  that  too,  do  you  ? ' '  They  exchanged 
glances,  and  the  cab  turned  the  corner  by  the  Park, 
Then  she  said : 

"The  last  time  I  was  late  I  said  I  had  been  listening 
to  'the  drone  of  London,'  " 

She  looked  at  him  quizzically,  and  they  both  laughed, 
as  though  they  had  both  found  a  sudden  piquant  delight 
in  the  adventure, 

"I  know,"  said  Braille  at  last,  "Wliy  not  say  that 
you  have  been  sitting  for  your  portrait  to  the  famous 
portrait  painter — John  Braille?" 


268  OLGA  BAEDEL 

"It  would  certainly  be  a  very  picturesque  lie,"  she 
answered. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  would  be  the  truth,"  he  said. 

They  both  pondered  over  this  statement.  As  the  cab 
was  passing  along  Oxford  Street  he  suddenly  said : 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you,  Mrs.  Streatham,  since  the  matter 
has  come  up.  Will  you  sit  for  me  ?  I  would  like  to  do 
a  full-length  of  you,  but  if  it  would  bore  you  too  much, 
will  you  let  me  do  a  head  ? ' ' 

The  cab  spun  along  down  Portland  Place,  and  she  did 
not  answer.  He  thought  for  a  moment  she  had  not 
heard.  Her  brow  contracted,  and  her  eyes  looked  down 
at  her  muff.  She  seemed  to  breathe  rather  rapidly.  It 
was  not  till  they  got  to  the  outer  circle  of  Regent 's  Park, 
and  the  streets  were  silent  and  deserted,  that  she  said 
in  a  low  voice : 

"Yes,  whenever  you  like." 

She  said  this  breathlessly,  as  though  she  had  uttered 
some  irrevocable  edict,  the  significance  of  which  she  was 
a  little  uncertain  how  to  determine. 


CHAPTER  VI 

RETROSPECTION 

TTIE  sun  streamed  through  the  long  French  win- 
dows, and  gave  to  the  chintz  coverings  of  the 
drawing-room  an  almost  garish  appearance. 
It  was  too  brilliant  a  day  to  allow  any  furniture,  even 
rare  antique,  to  have  a  semblance  of  appropriateness.  It 
searched  it  out  in  the  remotest  corners  of  the  room,  and 
seemed  to  say : 

"After  all,  you  're  only  sticks  and  stuffs.  I  made  you, 
in  my  good  time,  many  thousand  years  ago,  in  woods 
and  forests,  and  on  the  backs  of  wild  beasts.  How  ri- 
diculous to  deck  yourself  out  like  this!" 

She  went  to  the  window  and  lowered  the  sun-blind. 
She  was  expecting  Mollie  Fittle worth,  who  had  been 
on  a  visit  to  the  States,  The  room  looked  better,  more 
"together,"  in  the  modified  light.  It  was  indeed  a  very 
beautiful  room,  a  real  Georgian  room  now,  not  a  modern 
Georgian  room,  and  the  furniture  was  old  and  costly. 
It  was  a  certain  satisfaction  to  her  to  know  that  this 
move  into  a  larger  house  had  been  due  rather  to  her  than 
to  the  Streathams.  It  was,  in  fact,  due  to  her  dear 
friend  Urs.  Fittleworth,  who  had  died  suddenly  the  year 
that  Richard  was  born,  and  had  left  Olga  quite  a  consid- 
erable sum  of  money,  the  bulk  of  which  had  been  spent  on 

old  furniture  and  paying  debts.     This  satisfaction  was 

269 


270  .  OLGA  BAKDEL 

modified  by  searing  regrets.  As  she  looked  back  upon 
these  six  years  she  could  not  resist  reflecting  on  all  that 
she  might  have  done.  There  was  a  time  when  the  ball  was 
at  her  feet.  Everything  tended  to  show  that  with  just 
that  little  extra  fillip  she  might  have  been  one  of  the 
world's  great  musicians.  Perhaps  it  was  wicked  to  have 
wanted  this,  and  yet  she  could  not  help  it.  She  felt  the 
power  surging  through  her,  and  the  phrase  of  John 
Braille  would  often  recur,  ''spiritual  starvation." 

For  three  years  after  the  marriage  she  and  Harry  had 
always  been  in  what  were  called  "financial  straits." 
And  then  the  money  had  come,  with  all  its  golden  oppor- 
tunities. She  recalled  the  terrible  conflict  that  its  com- 
ing caused  between  her  husband  and  herself.  Terrible 
because  so  suppressed  and  so  unreasonable,  just  two 
forces  silently  pulling  in  opposite  directions.  She  with 
her  ambitions,  spiritual  and  evolutionary,  yearning  to 
help  that  which  required  helping,  trying  to  grasp  the  ele- 
ments of  the  social  equation,  and  not  being  able  to  with 
any  satisfaction,  seeking  to  find  her  own  niche  within  the 
ambit  of  her  social  life ;  he,  cynical  and  reactionary,  con- 
tent to  amble  round  in  a  circle,  with  no  ambitions  other 
than  intellectual  and  social  ones,  fully  satisfied  with  his 
material  gloss,  and  the  pleasant  stimulus  of  mental  calis- 
thenics. 

There  were  days  when  she  had  broken  her  fetters,  and 
performed  free  and  desperate  actions.  But  she  could 
not  resist  the  call  of  him,  or  banish  for  one  instant  the 
straining  of  her  heart  when  she  pictured  him  unhappy. 
lie  was  such  a  baby,  such  a  clamorous,  spoilt  darling. 
When  the  money  had  come,  she  had  made  a  bold  plan  to 
further  both  their  musical  careers,  but  Harry  had  never 


RETROSPECTION  271 

finished  the  concerto  that  had  been  so  much  advertised 
and  arranged  for,  and  for  herself,  at  the  time  when  this 
second  opportunity  came,  her  other  son  arrived.  Even 
then  she  had  not  lost  hope,  and  when  well  enough  again 
she  started  to  work  once  more.  But  there  were  many 
delays :  Harry 's  insistence  on  moving  into  the  new  house, 
and  all  the  work  that  this  entailed,  and  then  he  had  not 
been  well,  and  a  long  holiday  in  the  Pyrenees  had  fol- 
lowed. When  once  more  they  had  settled  down  in  Ilamp- 
stead,  she  knew  that  for  her  it  would  be  useless,  for  the 
time  being,  to  make  further  arrangements,  for  four 
months  later  the  third  child  was  bom.  Then  she  was 
very  ill,  and  the  little  girl  had  died. 

Those  indeed  had  been  terrible  days,  and  she  shud- 
dered to  look  back  on  them.  She  sometimes  wondered 
whether  there  was  in  herself  some  faculty  that  banished 
friendship.  People  seemed  to  come,  to  touch  some  chord 
in  her,  and  vanish.  Had  one  no  pennanent  hold  over 
those  fleeting  visions  ?  She  remembered  that  on  the  day 
of  Mrs.  Fittleworth 's  funeral,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
she  tried  to  recall  the  face  and  voice  of  little  Miss  j\Ier- 
son,  and  she  found  it  difficult.  Would  the  memory  of 
Mrs.  Fittleworth  become  as  dim?  Would  all  these  peo- 
ple she  had  loved  become  shadows  and  pass  away?  It 
occurred  to  her  that  if  Harry  went  away,  if  she  did  not 
see  him  for  years  and  years,  he  would  come  back  to  her 
— a  stranger.  Irene  and  Karl  and  IMontague  she  felt 
she  could  never  forget  in  that  way.  They  were  more 
than  a  vision.  They  held  a  pitiless  grasp  over  the  roots 
of  her  being,  but  she  had  no  love  for  them.  She  had  no 
love  for  any  one  except  the  two  boys  and  the  headlong 
helter-skelter  of  passion  that  bound  her  to  her  husband. 


272  OLGA  BAKDEL 

Emma  Pittleworth  had  married  a  government  official 
stationed  in  Scotland,  and  Mollie  had  gone  to  America 
to  stay  with  relations.  But  to  neither  of  these  girls  was 
she  tied  by  any  unbreakable  bond.  She  was  aware  that 
the  somewhat  restrained  quality  of  this  affection  was  due 
to  some  defect  in  herself.  She  had  an  affection  for  them 
that  she  shared  with  the  rest  of  humanity.  She  often 
remembered  the  remark  of  the  woman  whom  she  met  with 
Irene : 

' '  Do  you  know  why  I  come  to  this  ?  Because  I  'm  too 
fond  of  it — you  know,  everything ! ' ' 

Sometimes  she  felt  that  quality  in  herself.  She  was 
too  fond — of  everything.  Sometimes  the  angle  of  a  pale 
cheek  that  passed  her  in  the  street  would  send  her  quiver- 
ing on  her  way ;  her  heart  would  bleed  with  sorrow  at  the 
pinched  face  of  a  child.  She  would  want  to  take  them, 
all  these  people,  take  them  and  raise  them  up.  No  per- 
sonal affection  that  she  had  ever  experienced  seemed 
greater  or  more  vital  than  this  impersonal  love  of  the 
poor,  and  the  down-trodden,  and  the  wretched.  On  oc- 
casions when  she  had  been  alone  there  trailed  across  her 
dreams  the  vision  of  some  compensating  splendor,  as 
though  the  restless  anguish  of  the  world  could  dovetail 
with  some  sympathetic  image  within  herself  and  build  a 
passion,  but  it  would  be  a  passion  that  should  go  crash- 
ing to  the  stars. 

Perhaps  it  was  some  feeling  of  that  sort  that  made  her 
search  deeper  and  deeper  within  herself,  that  made  her 
turn  again  fiercely  and  desperately — like  a  cat  that  is 
being  robbed  of  its  food — to  her  only  means  of  subjec- 
tive expression — her  music.  Perhaps  that  was  why, 
when  it  was  so  often  talven  from  her,  she  raged  within 


RETROSPECTION  273 

herself,  beating  her  wings  against  the  confines  of  this 
social  cage.  She  was  being  stifled,  smothered,  crushed 
into  a  wayward,  perverse  creature.  "Spiritual  starva- 
tion!" 

Ah !  why,  on  this  afternoon  as  she  sat  there  waiting  for 
Mollie  Fittleworth,  with  the  sun  streaming  into  her 
drawing-room,  must  this  phrase  keep  recurring  to  her 
and  reviving  bitter-sweet  memories?  Why  to-day  must 
she  think  so  intently  of  John  Braille  ?  Why  to-day  were 
those  memories  concerning  him  so  vivid  ? 

Perhaps  it  was  such  a  day  as  this,  so  brilliant  that  the 
sun  had  to  be  shut  out.  She  was  seated  on  "the  throne" 
— as  he  called  it — in  his  studio.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
silver-gray  frock,  and  she  wore  a  black  picture  hat,  such 
as  was  fashionable  in  that  year.  She  sat  there — occa- 
sionally standing,  for  it  was  a  full-length.  He  wore  a 
black  screen  on  his  temples  to  protect  his  eyes,  and  to 
aid  the  concentration  of  his  gaze.  It  made  him  look 
very  queer,  like  a  magician.  And  surely  he  was  some- 
thing of  a  magician.  She  could  not  stand  there  without 
being  aware  of  the  concentrated  fury  of  his  gaze — like  a 
frenzy  it  was,  something  that  consumed  her,  and  re- 
vealed her  innermost  thoughts.  They  spoke  very  little 
till  the  work  was  finished,  when  a  man  would  bring  in  a 
tray  of  tea-things ;  but  she  could  see  his  eyes  and  watch 
the  nervous,  sensitive  poising  of  the  hand,  and  then  the 
sudden  masterly  movement  of  the  brush.  He  was  no 
courtier  when  she  sat  to  him.  He  seemed  sometimes  al- 
most as  though  he  were  unconscious  of  her,  as  though  he 
were  merely  searching  for  something  inside.  He  spoke 
at  times  quite  bruskly:  "Head  a  little  more  tilted!" 
"No,  no;  this  way!"    "Your  left  shoulder,  please,"  as 


274  OLGA  BARDEL 

though  he  were  some  wild  thing  obeying  some  higher 
command.  It  interested  her  to  notice  how  he  worked, 
and  to  observe  that  the  action  of  painting  produced  in 
him  an  elevated  sense  of  excitement.  His  mind  was  on  a 
different  plane.  It  was  quite  noticeable  how,  when  the 
sitting  was  over,  he  would  gradually  become  more  nor- 
mal. She  would  go  and  stand  by  him,  and  they  would 
look  at  the  portrait,  and  discuss  it.  She  was  intensely 
ignorant  about  painting,  but  it  did  not  seem  ridiculous 
for  her  to  say,  "Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Braille,  you  have 
made  my  neck  too  long?" 

He  had  taken  all  her  remarks  with  the  same  eager 
intentness,  and  discussed  them  exhaustively.  And  then 
the  mental  process  of  "cooling  down  from  the  picture" 
would  take  place  in  him.  He  would  keep  darting  back 
to  it  for  a  momentary  glance.  It  became  a  sort  of  rallen- 
tando  of  movement  till  he  left  it  altogether  for  the  day. 

Not  till  then  would  something  of  the  courtier  return 
to  him.  Then  he  would  wait  on  her,  and  move  about  the 
room  with  big  sweeping  movements.  During  those  days 
she  worked  hard,  for  John  Braille  always  wanted  to 
know  what  she  was  working  at. 

She  had  never  met  any  one  who  seemed  so  broad  and 
big  as  he,  and  yet  who  could  be  so  gentle.  He  had  a  way 
of  speaking  to  her  like  a  wistful  schoolboy  thoughts  that 
came  spontaneously  to  him.  He  would  lay  them  bare 
and  look  at  them,  and  they  would  stand  side  by  side  and 
examine  them,  in  the  same  way  that  they  examined  the 
picture.  In  spite  of  a  certain  autocracy  of  bearing,  he 
was  always  the  student,  susceptible  to  impressions,  and 
carrying  with  him  a  sort  of  reverence  for  mystical  and 
unexplained  things.     He  stood  by  the  prescript  of  Le- 


RETROSPECTION  275 

vitch  to  fight  for  the  power  to  renew  himself,  to  ''think 
all  over  again." 

How  splendid  were  those  days!  They  stood  apart — 
in  her  life — like  gleams  of  gold  that  will  suddenly  flood 
the  heavens  after  a  day  of  rain.  How  little  she  realized 
at  the  time  how  much  they  were  to  be  to  her,  that  in 
after  years  the  memory  of  them  would  be  a  sanctuary 
from  distressing  thoughts ! 

She  had  seen  the  tragedy  of  those  days  rise,  reach  its 
climax,  and  die  away,  and  she  heard  the  curtain  fall 
with  mathematical  precision  on  its  last  words.  In  fact, 
there  was  something  mathematical  about  the  whole  thing. 
For  she  had  observed  its  inception  in  connection  with  the 
rallentando  mentioned  above.  She  knew  that  in  the  mind 
of  John  Braille,  she  and  the  picture  were  two  very  dif- 
ferent things.  He  had  the  power  of  putting  himself 
outside  her  personal  contact.  He  expressed  her  in  paint, 
or  rather  it  was  his  own  intense  personal  vision  of  her 
that  he  expressed.  He  came  under  the  spell  of  it  and 
it  possessed  him.  When  the  painting  was  finished,  he 
shook  this  vision  off,  and  returned  to  her — Olga  herself. 
It  was  as  though  the  spell  of  her  were  contending  with 
the  spell  of  his  personal  vision  of  her.  She  would  have 
been  blind  if  she  had  not  been  conscious  of  this.  He 
seemed  quite  abruptly  to  lose  the  power  of  painting  her. 
She  felt  that  intense  gaze  fading  from  his  subjective  view, 
and  becoming  lost  in  her.  It  was  terrible,  and  she  did 
not  know  liow  to  act.  She  could  see  the  struggle  going 
on  under  the  dark  shutter.  He  gradually  lost  the  naive 
bruskness  with  which  he  had  originally  ordered  her  to 
"hold  her  chin  up."  He  became  sympathetic,  and  per., 
sonal,  and  would  keep  on  saying  in  a  low  voice : 


276  OLGA  BARDEL 

"  I  'm  sure  you  must  be  tired,  Mrs,  Streatham. ' ' 

She  remembered  the  afternoon  when  she  went — it  was 
nearly  the  end  of  the  summer,  on  a  glorious  day  like  this 
— and  found  him  sitting  deep  in  thought.  He  had  not 
heard  her  come  in.  His  face  looked  white  and  set,  and 
he  had  jumped  up  and  greeted  her.  And  then  he  turned 
away.  She  thought  he  looked  self-conscious,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment he  spoke,  and  she  could  tell  that  he  did  not  find  it 
easy  to  keep  his  voice  so  steady  as  it  sounded.  He  had 
said: 

"I  'm  afraid  the  portrait  is  not  being  a  success,  Mrs. 
Streatham.     I  have  scraped  it  down.     See  ! ' ' 

And  there  indeed  was  the  pale  ghost  of  two  months' 
work  scraped  to  the  canvas.     She  had  said : 

"Oh,  what  a  bother  I  am  to  paint!  Would  you  like 
to  give  it  a  rest,  Mr.  Braille,  and  take  it  up  later  ? ' ' 

He  had  seemed  very  reticent  at  that,  and  framed  his 
mouth  as  though  he  were  about  to  speak,  and  then  had 
stopped.  He  had  walked  up  and  do\\Ti  the  studio  once 
or  twice,  looking  at  her  almost  furtively,  and  then  had 
looked  at  his  depleted  canvas.  At  last  he  had  said  quite 
calmly : 

"Yes.  That  would  be  the  best  way.  Perhaps — in  the 
autumn  we  can — finish  it." 

He  had  seemed  rather  frigid  and  at  a  loss.  He  had 
tried  to  pass  off  his  attitude  as  she  was  going,  and  had 
said :  • 

"Please  forgive  me,  Mrs.  Streatham.  I  'm  afraid  I  'ra 
rather — run  down.  I  want  a  change.  I  feel  very  cul- 
pable— wasting  your  time." 

She  had  struggled  to  smile,  but  for  the  life  of  her 
she  could  not  say  what  she  wanted  to  say.     She  had  said : 


RETROSPECTION  277 

"I'm  sure  it's  all  my  fault.     I  talked  too  much." 

But  she  had  not  meant  to  say  this.  She  was  not  quite 
sure  what  she  wanted  to  say.  Perhaps  she  had  wanted 
to  say: 

"Oh,  splendid  person,  please,  please,  please  don't  be 
unhappy.  I  know  something  worries  you.  I  want  to 
help  you.  It  doesn't  matter  about  the  picture.  I  'm 
only  a  little  thing.  If  I  cause  you  uneasiness,  banish  me ! 
banish  me  forever,  only  let  me  always  hold  the  memory 
of  you  standing  there,  looking  so  strong  and  splendid. 
Whatever  happens  to  me  in  after  years,  you  will  always 
know  that  the  memory  of  you  has  made  life  more  pos- 
sible for  me." 

But  she  had  not  been  able  to  say  this,  she  had  only 
been  able  to  smile  through  her  tears  and  to  shake  his 
hand. 

And  then  some  months  had  passed.  He  had  gone  to 
the  Austrian  Tyrol,  and  she  and  Harry  and  the  child 
went  down  to  Devonshire.  She  had  but  a  vague  recollec- 
tion of  those  days  except  that  they  all  seemed  the  same, 
and  the  Streatham  family  was  there,  and  they  all  did  the 
usual  things  that  one  does  at  the  seaside. 

On  the  return  to  London  she  had  telegraphed  to  him 
that  she  was  back,  and  could  continue  the  sittings,  and 
he  had  replied  asking  her  to  come  on  the  morrow. 

He  had  seemed  bronzed  and  well,  and  he  had  given  her 
an  eager  smile  of  welcome.  The  old  canvas  was  in  its 
place  and  everything  prepared.  They  resumed  their 
silent  intercourse,  and  she  felt  strangely  happy  sitting 
there  listening  to  the  occasional  dropping  of  a  cinder  in 
the  stove,  and  the  stealthy  movements  of  the  brush  on 
the  canvas.     She  was  watching  and  listening  very  in- 


278  OLGA  BARDEL 

tently,  and  once  or  twice  she  thought  she  heard  him  sigh. 
At  the  end  of  twenty  minutes  he  had  said: 

' '  Won 't  you  have  a  rest,  Mrs,  Streatham  ? ' ' 

She  had  answered : 

"No;  please  go  on." 

And  then  she  thought  he  sighed  again.  He  seemed  to 
hover  restlessly  in  front  of  the  easel,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes he  had  said : 

"Tell  me,  what  have  you  been  working  at?" 

"Alas!"  she  had  answered,  "I  have  been  very  lazy. 
I  have  had  a  complete  holiday.  We  did  nothing  in  Dev- 
onshire. ' ' 

Then,  after  a  pause,  he  had  said: 

' '  By  Jove !  you  look  awfully — well. ' ' 

She  had  laughed  and  answered : 

"Yes.     I  'm  afraid  I  've  upset  all  your  coloring." 

There  was  no  rallentando  of  transition  from  the  pic- 
ture phase  to  the  personal  phase  on  that  day.  He  sud- 
denly dropped  the  picture  altogether,  and  came  over  and 
talked  to  her.  It  was  as  though  something  had  been 
freed  in  him.  He  spoke  gaily  and  boyishly,  and  insisted 
on  her  not  sitting  for  long  at  this  first  sitting.  They 
suddenly  became  intimate  again,  and  sat  facing  each 
other,  exchanging  mental  experiences.  They  talked  of 
Bohemia,  and  the  effect  of  physical  conditions  on  char- 
acter. He  spoke  of  his  father — Admiral  Braille — of 
whom  he  had  not  spoken  before. 

"His  character  was  molded  by  the  sea,"  he  had  said. 
"Sometimes  when  I  am  in  doubt  how  to  act,  I  try  and 
visualize  my  father's  eyes.  He  used  to  say,  'Man  has 
chopped  the  precepts  of  his  conscience  into  a  thousand 
fragments,  but  the  doctrine  of  the  sea  is  never  wrong.' 


RETROSPECTION  279 

It  is  a  great  consolation  that,  something  vast  and  incor- 
ruptible that  may  always  be  gone  back  to.  I  have  read 
many  books,  sacred  and  profane,  and  they  have  given 
me  many  impulses,  but  they  have  taught  me  nothing  of 
fundamental  value  that  I  could  not  read  in  my  father's 
eyes."  He  had  seemed  volatile  and  discursive  after 
that,  and  had  brought  her  her  parasol  and  chatelaine 
with  an  air  of  mock  reverence.  It  was  only  just  as  she 
was  going  that  something  happened  that  shook  the  foun- 
dations of  this  engaging  edifice  of  happy  communion. 
Her  shoe-lace  came  undone,  and  she  put  down  her  para- 
sol, and  went  back  to  the  throne.  She  put  her  foot  up  on 
the  throne,  and  stooped  and  tied  it.  The  action  took 
perhaps  two  minutes,  then,  as  she  looked  up,  she  saw  him 
standing  six  paces  from  her.  He  was  leaning  forward, 
and  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  with  a  strained  and  tor- 
tured expression.  Their  eyes  met  and  in  that  glance 
was  bom  the  indelible  impress  of  an  understanding. 
They  were  both  strangely  silent,  breathing  quickly.  He 
hardly  dared  to  look  at  her  again,  and  he  handed  her  her 
parasol  once  more  and  bowed  with  a  curious,  old-time 
courtesy. 

Ah !  why  had  she  stooped  like  that  ?  What  was  this 
conspiracy  of  nature  that  had  used  the  curves  of  her 
body  to  send  him  cringing  from  her?  How  happy  they 
might  have  been  even  now,  with  their  fine  occasional 
communion  of  thoughts!  She  had  returned  that  day 
trembling  with  apprehension.  She  knew  the  catastrophe 
was  coming.  It  was  no  surprise  to  her  to  receive  his 
note  that  same  evening: 

It  is  no  good.  I  cannot  finiah  the  portrait.  1  will  call  to- 
morrow to  say  good-by.  j.  B. 


280  OLGA  BARDEt 

And  then,  that  day!  Ah!  how  vivid  and  poignant 
every  moment  of  it  had  been !  She  had  waited  for  him 
here  in  this  same  room.  She  remembered  that  the  nurse 
was  going  to  take  the  child  out,  and  she  had  hoped  they 
would  go  before  he  came,  but  of  course  they  didn't. 
Things  never  did  happen  like  that.  She  brought  the 
child  in  soon  after  he  had  arrived.  But  what  had  hap- 
pened up  till  then  ?  She  was  standing  here,  by  the  fire- 
place. The  maid  showed  him  in.  He  advanced  rapidly 
and  took  her  hand.  She  knew  that  her  hands  were  cold. 
She  could  not  speak.  She  put  them  both  in  his  and  he 
crushed  them  together  in  his  strong  grip.  He  drew  her 
over  there  to  the  settee,  and  they  sat  down  side  by  side. 
They  did  not  like  to  look  at  each  other,  and  like  the  weak 
fool  she  was,  she  could  not  keep  back  the  tears  that 
trickled  down  her  cheek.  He  did  not  leave  go  of  her 
hands,  but  she  knew  that  his  head  was  very  close  to  hers, 
and  he  was  devouring  her  whole  soul  with  his  glance. 
And  then  he  said  something  so  magic,  the  exact  sound 
of  it  would  ring  through  her  ears  forever: 
* '  Olga  dear,  you  must  not  be  unhappy ! ' ' 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  called  her  Olga!  She 
*  *  must  not  be  unhappy ! ' '  Heavens !  what  was  this  mad- 
ness ?  She  could  not  keep  him  and  she  could  not  let  him 
go.  Forces  suppressed  within  her  all  her  life  found 
their  apotheosis  at  that  moment  and  cried  out  in  despera- 
tion. What  had  all  this  silly  business  of  life  to  do  with 
this  ?  What  did  she  care  ?  The  stars  were  calling,  what 
did  it  matter  if  the  satyrs  piped,  and  the  inane  edifices 
of  humanity  crumpled  to  the  dust?  Happiness!  Why 
should  she  not  fight  for  that  secret  within  herself,  that 
surging  desire  to  seek  a  compensation  in  some  blinding 


RETROSPECTION  281 

passion  that  would  raise  tlie  images  within  her  to  the 
heavens  ?  Had  the  world  been  so  glad  a  place  for  her,  so 
understanding,  so  sane?  Did  she  not  feel  within  her- 
self something  greater  than  the  life  expressed  around 
her?  Should  she  not  fight  for  this,  tooth  and  nail,  like 
a  wild  beast  expressing  its  primitive  virility?  She 
put  out  her  hand  and  touched  the  hair  upon  his  tem- 
ple. 

"John,"  she  had  said,  "you  .  .  .  you,  tell  me,  are 
you  happy?" 

And  then  he  had  burned  her  with  his  eyes,  the  longing 
was  so  tense,  so  poignant.  She  had  given  a  little  cry 
and  put  her  hand  across  his  eyes,  as  though  she  dare 
not  let  them  see  how  much  she  understood. 

He  had  sat  there  then,  immobile,  like  an  image  cast 
in  bronze,  looking  down  at  his  hands. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  nurse  brought  the 
child  in.  In  the  constrained  minutes  that  followed,  in 
which  they  both  sought  to  find  the  matter-of-fact  things 
to  say,  she  was  conscious  of  him  gazing  at  the  child  as 
though  he  were  transcending  the  inner  mysteries.  Some 
impulse  bade  her  dismiss  the  nurse,  and  she  took  the  child 
herself  and  hugged  it  to  her  bosom.  She  did  not  know 
why  she  did  this,  for  the  child  at  once  seemed  a  burden 
to  her,  and  she  wanted  to  send  it  away  again.  It  awak- 
ened, too,  and  seemed  conscious  of  its  importunity.  She 
rocked  it  on  her  knee,  and  in  a  little  while  the  queru- 
lous sounds  subsided.  She  smiled  and  beckoned  him  to 
her,  and  they  sat  together  once  more  side  by  side.  It 
was  she  who  ultimately  broke  the  silence. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "one  day  you  will  find  it  in  your 
heart  to  finish  the  portrait." 


282  OLGA  BARDEL 

He  had  looked  at  her  with  that  wistful,  boyish  look, 
and  said : 

"Who  knows?  Perhaps  one  day  the  vision  of  you  will 
not  blind  me  .  .  .  perhaps  one  day  when  the  nails  in  my 
flesh  have  lost  their  power  of  transmitting  agony,  I  may 
not  be  ashamed  to  come  to  you.  Then  I  shall  paint  you 
as  'The  Mother'  looking  down  at  her  son.  I  shall  be 
modest  then,  reverent — they  often  accuse  me  of  inso- 
lence as  a  painter ! — I  shall  have  passed  through  the  great 
fire.  Strange,  isn't  it,  that  subject  that  all  the  greatest 
masters  have  painted,  that  they  have  excelled  at  painting 
— ^the  subject  of  'The  Mother'?  It  is  always  that — the 
Mother  looking  at  her  Son.  Perhaps  it  is  because  it  is  so 
symbolical  of  sacrifice.  Fire  and  anguish,  and  lo !  some- 
thing indestructible  is  born !" 

She  leaned  towards  him,  and  her  face  was  flushed. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  had  said.  "My  dear!  My  dear! 
You  asked  me  if  I  were  unhappy.  Good  God !  I  am ! 
I  am !  There  is  nothing  for  me,  no  hope,  no  refuge,  if 
you  do  not  help  me." 

He  had  looked  startled  at  her  desperate  appeal,  and 
she  had  suddenly  added,  with  the  tears  streaming  down 
her  cheeks : 

"If  you  were  to  ask  me,  I  would  throw  my  child 
from  me.  I  am  alone.  Do  you  understand? — alone  in 
the  great  drab  world." 

She  saw  hira  tremble  and  go  to  the  window.  He  stood 
there  very  erect,  his  nostrils  quivering.  His  chin  was 
set,  and  suddenly  he  turned  and  looked  at  her.  She  was 
conscious  of  some  great  change  in  him,  and  the  know- 
ledge came  to  her  that  in  that  tragic  interval  he  had 
been  gazing  into  the  vision  of  his  father 's  eyes.     She  rose 


RETROSPECTIOX  283 

and  weut  toward  him,  but  lie  put  up  his  hand,  and  cried 
out: 

"No,  no!     Let  me  look  at  you  ayain  like  that." 

She  obeyed  quite  eahnly,  as  though  she  had  no  power  to 
do  otherwise.  She  could  not  remember  how  long  she  had 
sat  there  looking  down  at  the  child,  but  she  knew  that  at 
length  he  had  come  and  put  his  hands,  one  on  either  side 
of  her  head,  and  raised  it  gently,  and  looked  at  her. 
And  then  he  had  touched  her  hair,  passing  his  hand  over 
it  as  though  forming  an  imaginary  frame.  And  then, 
without  looking  back,  he  walked  on  tiptoe  from  the 
room. 

How  vividly  the  whole  thing  came  back  to  her  to-day 
as  she  sat  there  in  the  drawing-room,  listening  to  the 
singing  of  the  brass  kettle  on  the  tripod,  waiting  for 
Mollie  Fittleworth.  She  rose  and  looked  at  herself  in  the 
mirror.  She  had  not  aged  much  during  these  years,  and 
yet  it  struck  her  that  she  did  not  look  an  appropriate 
hostess  for  such  a  room.  It  seemed  to  demand  some  one 
gayer,  of  a  different  mold.  As  she  turned  once  more 
to  the  table,  the  door  opened,  and  a  maid  entered,  fol- 
lowed by  a  vision  of  loveliness. 

"Miss  Fittleworth." 

The  maid's  announcement  was  drowned  by  the  cry  of 
greeting  from  IMollie  herself. 

' '  My  dear !  how  good  it  is  to  see  you  again ! ' ' 

The  women  embraced,  and  then  Olga  held  the  younger 
one  apart. 

"My  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  pretty  you  've 
grown ! ' ' 

The  flush  of  pleasure  that  lighted  ]\rollie's  features  at 
this  remark  did  not  tend  to  lessen  the  impression.     She 


284  OLGA  BARDEL 

was  indeed  a  very  pretty  girl.  Her  brilliant  coloring 
and  bright  eyes  and  the  mass  of  fair  hair  cunningly 
waved  beneath  her  hat  emphasized  the  vivacity  of  her 
engaging  presence.  There  was  still  something  of  the 
rogue  about  her,  and  her  eyes  never  ceased  to  sparkle 
with  the  joy  of  living. 

"I  'm  just  dying  to  see  the  children  and  to  hear  all 
your  news!"  she  exclaimed. 

It  occurred  to  Olga  that  as  she  sat  there  in  the  setting 
of  chintz  and  satinwood  and  the  glitter  of  little  silver 
things,  how  well  she  took  her  place.  John  Braille  would 
like  to  paint  her  sitting  there.  He  would  call  it  *'The 
Hostess. ' '  He  would  find  an  amount  of  mordant  ' '  fun ' ' 
in  doing  it. 

"You  must  have  tea  first,"  she  said.  ''And  tell  me 
all  about  'God's  country.'  " 

And  then  Harry  came  in.  He  was  dressed  in  flannels 
— for  they  still  went  to  the  Guildefords  to  play  tennis. 
He  looked  very  handsome  to-day.  The  years  had  affected 
him  little,  except  for  the  slight  increase  of  girth,  and  a 
certain  inelasticity  in  the  lines  of  his  face.  She  saw  him 
advance,  and  his  eyes  suddenly  lighten  with  undisguised 
admiration  when  he  beheld  Mollie.  There  was  consider- 
able laughter  in  recalling  old  days,  for  Harry  could 
hardly  believe  that  this  was  the  little  fair  child  that  he 
met  at  Mrs.  Fittleworth 's  so  many  years  ago.  She  soon 
noticed  that  he  assumed  one  of  his  gay,  animated  moods 
that  he  always  put  on  when  any  one  was  present  whom 
he  wanted  to  please,  and  Mollie  sparkled  with  pleasant 
Americanisms  that  she  had  gathered  on  the  other  side. 
Olga's  task  as  a  hostess  soon  became  a  negligible  one, 
but  after  a  time  she  said : 


RETROSPECTION  285 

''I  'm  going  to  America  too,  Mollie;  so  you  must  give 
me  some  introductions." 

They  both  looked  up  at  her,  surprised,  and  she  con- 
tinued : 

"Yes,  I  'm  tired  of  inactivity.  I  've  been  talking  to 
my  agent,  and  he  thinks  that  if  I  play  here  in  the  au- 
tumn he  can  arrange  a  tour  for  me  in  the  States  next 
year." 

"My!"  exclaimed  Mollie.  "But  what  will  you  do 
about  the  babies,  dear?" 

"I  have  an  excellent  nurse,"  said  Olga ;  and  then, 
after  a  pause,  she  smiled  and  added,  "And  you  can 
come,  and  keep  an  eye  on  them  sometimes,  Mollie,  if 
you  're  here." 


CHAPTER  VII 

''the  comfortable  crucifixion" 

SHE  was  lying  on  the  couch  in  her  hotel — the 
Chateau  Barzac — at  Quebec.  On  the  morrow  she 
was  to  return  to  England.  The  tour  had  been 
what  is  known  in  the  musical  profession  as  a  "half- 
success."  Her  agent,  a  small,  frog-faced  man  in  New 
York  called  Johansen,  of  tremendous  virility,  had  raged 
with  promises  and  optimism.  But  these  she  found  had 
only  been  fulfilled  in  a  minor  degree.  She  also  suspected 
that  a  sum  of  money  that  had  been  advanced  to  him  for 
advertising  purposes  had  only  partially  been  expended, 
and  she  had  experienced  the  greatest  difficulty  in  getting 
her  fees  from  hira.  The  worry  of  this,  added  to  the  dis- 
comfort of  living  continuously  for  three  months  in  over- 
heated trains  and  hotels,  had  brought  about  a  slight 
nervous  collapse.  She  had  had  to  cancel  the  last  three 
weeks  of  the  tour  and  rest  in  this  hotel  in  Quebec.  The 
placid  little  American  woman  named  Edith  Yarrow,  who 
had  acted  as  companion  and  courier  to  her,  had  had  to 
return  to  Boston  that  morning. 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  It  was  a  gorgeous 
view.  She  looked  down  on  to  the  roofs  of  the  old  town. 
The  whole  country  was  buried  in  snow,  except  where  the 
waters  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  reflecting  the  blue  vault  of 
the  winter  sky,  rode  proudly  seawards. 

286 


''THE  COMFORTABLE  CRUCIFIXION"       287 

In  spite  of  her  illness  and  the  unsatisfactory  business 
arrangements,  she  had  enjoyed  the  tour.  She  had  felt 
that  she  was  to  an  extent  satisfying  some  fundamental 
purpose.  She  had  again  felt  that  "magic  thrill  of  lis- 
tening crowds, ' '  many  people  had  been  kind  to  her,  and 
in  some  towns  she  had  had  a  great  success.  Nevertheless 
her  heart  was  yearning  for  the  two  children,  and  she  was 
always  thinking  of  Harry,  and  worrying  about  the  little 
things  concerning  him,  wondering  whether  he  was 
being  properly  looked  after,  and  whether  he  was 
wretched  without  her.  He  wrote  her  short  affectionate 
notes,  and  when  she  was  tired  she  yearned  for  the  warm 
embraces  of  his  arms  and  the  pressure  of  his  heart 
against  hers. 

The  bright  winter  sun  danced  upon  the  snow.  In  ten 
days  she  would  be  back.  She  would  feel  the  warm  com- 
fort of  her  home  life  once  more  around  her.  She  would 
not  give  up  her  playing.  She  would  work  harder,  and 
be  more  ambitious,  but  she  would  stifle  something  within 
herself,  and  be  loyal  to  the  conditions  fate  had  imposed 
upon  her. 

She  put  on  her  furs  and  went  out  into  the  sun.  It 
was  entrancing,  this  town,  with  its  tortuous  streets,  and 
its  old-world  associations,  and  its  sturdy  habitants,  in- 
troducing a  note  of  French  vivacity  into  the  stern  busi- 
ness of  living.  It  seemed  peculiarly  peaceful  after  the 
almost  fantastic  modernity  of  the  American  cities.  She 
went  to  the  post-office  and  sent  a  cable  to  Harry : 

Passage  booked  Saturday  Philomena  love. 

Olga. 

Then  she  wandered  down  towards  the  river.  As  she 
passed  through  a  narrow  street  of  dilapidated  buildings. 


288  OLGA  BARDEL 

a  tall  man  in  tattered  furs  passed  her.  His  face  was  wan 
and  his  black,  unkempt  beard  gave  him  a  wild,  bizarre 
appearance.  He  looked  at  her  abstractedly  and  passed 
on.  When  he  had  gone  about  ten  paces,  they  both 
turned,  and  looked  at  each  other  simultaneously.  She 
gave  a  cry,  and  ran  towards  him. 

"Montague!"  she  called. 

He  stood  there  gazing  at  her,  as  though  probing  the 
depths  of  his  memory,  and  then  he  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"Olger!" 

She  put  out  her  hands,  and  he  held  them  tight.  She 
was  conscious  that  in  spite  of  his  disheveled  appearance 
and  his  gaunt  and  hollow  features,  there  was  about  him 
some  wistful  and  humanizing  quality.  His  eyes  lighted 
with  pleasure  at  seeing  her,  and  he  murmured : 

"My!  .  .  .  Olger!     It  's  little  Olger!" 

"I  've  been  playing  here,"  she  said,  "on  a  tour.  I  'm 
going  back  to-morrow.     Can 't  we  have  a  talk  ? ' ' 

He  looked  down,  and  said : 

"I  'm  working  till  seven  o'clock — unloading  timber. 
Could  you — could  I — see  you  this  evening?" 

"Will  you  come  to  my  hotel?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  at  his  clothes,  and  smiled,  then  shook  his 
head. 

"I  can't  do  that,"  he  said.  "Will  you  come  and  see 
me,  337  Montcalm  Avenue,  just  above  Powel's  saloon?" 

She  nodded  and  answered,  "All  right,  Montague,  I  '11 
come.     337  Montcalm  Avenue,"  and  she  wrote  it  down. 

He  scratched  his  ear  and  grinned  at  her  once  more, 
then,  taking  off  his  cloth  cap,  he  slouched  away. 

She  thought  it  as  well  that  evening,  in  view  of  the 


''THE  COMFORTABLE  CRUCIFIXION"       289 

cold  and  her  recent  illness,  to  hire  a  sleigh,  and  she  ar- 
rived at  the  address  Montague  had  given  her  just  after 
half-past  eight.  She  told  the  driver  to  come  back  for 
her  at  half-past  nine. 

It  was  a  poor  but  solidly  built  house,  with  double  mIh- 
dows  like  nearly  every  other  building  in  Quebec.  She 
passed  through  a  passage  that  skirted  a  saloon  where 
men  were  playing  a  game  something  like  skittles,  and 
some  one  was  singing  to  the  accompaniment  of  an  ac- 
cordion, and  went  up  the  stairs.  On  the  first  landing 
there  were  several  doors,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  good 
deal  of  noise  and  confusion,  but  ^Tontague  was  stand- 
ing there,  waiting  for  her.  He  smiled  a  welcome  and 
said: 

"Come  into  my  room." 

She  followed  him  into  a  square  room  where  there  was 
a  bed  and  a  table  and  a  few  other  odds  and  ends  of  fur- 
niture. There  was  no  stove,  but  it  was  apparently  cen- 
trally heated ;  it  seemed  warm  and  was  fairly  decent. 
He  gave  Olga  a  chair  and  sat  on  the  bed  himself. 

"This  is  one  of  the  Skinner  buildings,"  he  explained, 
"laid  out  for  mechanics.  Three  dollars  a  week  I  pay. 
Not  bad,  is  it? — includes  a  hot  bath  any  time.  Great 
country  this  is.  A  man  may  live  here  and  be  free,"  and 
he  made  a  sweeping  movement  with  his  hand  and  then 
said: 

"Now  tell  us  all  about  yourself,  Olger." 

He  seemed  to  have  lost  the  apathy  that  was  so  char- 
acteristic of  him  in  the  old  days.  He  spoke  roughly  but 
eagerly,  and  was  obviously  anxious  to  hear  her  news. 
She  told  him  as  briefly  as  possible  that  she  was  happily 


290  OLGA  BAKDEL 

married,  and  had  two  children — both  boys — that  she  still 
played  the  piaoio,  and  had  just  had  a  successful  tour 
through  the  States  and  Canada. 

"Yer  'usband  didn't  come  with  yer,  then?"  Mon- 
tague asked  when  she  had  finished. 

She  hesitated  and  said : 

"No;  you  see  it  's  such  a  long  way  and  so — expensive. 
Besides,  you  see,  he  is  a  composer — it  would  have  wasted 
his  time." 

Montague  said,  "  I  see  ! "  and  he  looked  at  her  narrowly. 

"Now  tell  me  what  you  've  been  doing,"  she  asked 
quickly. 

Montague  passed  his  hand  over  his  beard  and  looked 
down.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  remember  something, 
and  at  last  he  sighed,  and  said : 

"Oh,  I  dunno — most  everything.  Trying  to  do  and 
undo,  trying  to  make  and  unmake.  Doing  things,  and 
then  wondering  why  I  do  'em — going  round  in  circles 
like." 

"We  all  do  that,"  said  Olga. 

"Yep,"  said  Montague,  looking  up  at  her  again. 
"And  the  happier  you  are  the  smaller  the  circle  is  likely 
to  be." 

The  sound  of  the  accordion  reached  them  from  below. 
The  doleful  sounds  immediately  reminded  Olga  of  the 
last  evening  she  had  spent  with  Irene.  She  must  not 
tell  Montague  the  truth  about  Irene.  It  seemed  strange, 
but  she  instinctively  felt  that  it  would  probably  upset 
him  very  much. 

"He  has  improved,"  she  thought,  "beyond  all  recog- 
nition.    Fancy  him  saying  that  about  the  circles !    What 


"THE  COMFORTABLE  CRUCIFIXION"       291 

has  Montague  been  through  that  has  raised  him  above 
the  others?" 

Montague  fidgeted  about,  and  then,  without  looking  at 
her,  he  said  in  an  altered  voice : 

"  'Ave  yer  seen  anything  of  Karl  and  Irene?" 

She  was  prepared  for  this,  and  she  answered  : 

"Not  for  a  long  time.  Karl  had  some  work  in  Paris, 
something  to  do  with  horses.  Irene — I  have  not  heard 
from  for  many  years.  She  was  living  with  a — lady  then. 
Uncle  Grubhofer  died,  you  know." 

Montague  looked  at  her  with  a  far-away  expression, 
and  then  he  said: 

''Uncle  Grubhofer,  you  still  call  'im,  eh?  You  don't 
know,  then?" 

Olga  shivered  slightly,  and  then  said: 

"No.  I  don't  know.  I  was  there  just  before  he  died. 
There  was  an  old  woman  there.  I  had  the  idea —  But 
what  does  it  matter  now,  Montague?     It  's  all  over!" 

Montague  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  his  hands  trembled. 

"No  one  can  never  say  that  it  don't  matter,  never!" 
he  enunciated.  "Lord!  we  're  all  victims  of  it.  Don't 
you  see,  we  're  all  the  playthings  of  little  things  that 
*appened  long  ago?  'Ow  many  of  our  aristocratic  fam- 
ilies are  descended  from  the  mistresses  of  kings  what 
died  thousands  of  years  ago,  eh?  Think  of  that! 
That  's  something  to  think  about,  ain't  it?  The  sport  of 
idle  passions,  eh?  Each  one  of  us  at  some  mad  time, 
eh?  D'  5^ou  know  what  I  'appen  to  know?  When  Uncle 
Grubhofer — as  you  call  'im — died,  I  was  in  Scotland.  I 
saw  it  in  the  paper,  and  I  made  a  bee-line  for  London, 
and  went  to  a  lawyer  I  know  of.    I  was  a  bit  late,  'cause 


292  OLGA  BARDEL 

Karl  was  there  afore  me.  And  then  d '  you  know  what 
we  found  out  ?  Uncle  Grubhof er  had  left  nine  thousand 
pounds !  And  not  a  penny  could  we  touch !  'E  was 
no  more  our  uncle  than  the  King  of  China  was !  He  left 
no  will,  and  'e  'ad  n  't  a  relation  in  the  world,  and  the 
'ole  bally  lot  went  to  the  Crown !  Nine  thousand  pounds ! 
forty-five  thousand  dollars!     Think  of  it!" 

Montague  opened  and  shut  his  hands,  and  looked  at 
the  wall,  as  though  considering  whether  the  amount 
seemed  more  attractive  in  pounds  or  dollars;  then  sud- 
denly the  tone  of  his  voice  changed. 

"I  don't  care.  I  'm  not  sure  we  're  not  better  without 
it.  Karl  and  I  quarreled  like  the  devil  at  the  time.  I 
thought  Karl  would  get  D.  T.'s.  He  drank  and  nearly 
went  mad.  The  lawyer  was  a  nice  bloke,  and  we  found 
out  some  things.     I  '11  show  yer  something. ' ' 

Montague  went  to  a  drawer  and  rummaged  amongst 
some  papers.  At  last  he  found  a  letter  written  on  a 
faded  mottled  paper,  which  was  in  an  envelope  addressed 
to  "Mr.  Julius  Grubhof  er."  The  writing  was  in  a 
quaint,  formal  hand,  rather  neatly  written  but  giving  the 
impression  that  the  writer  had  been  at  great  pains  to 
complete  it.     It  simply  said : 

My  dear,  this  can't  go  on.  I  believe  Nathan  smells  a  rat, 
besides  it  is  breaking  my  heart.  H. 

Olga's  lips  turned  white  when  she  read  this,  and  she 
looked  at  Montague  aghast. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  said. 

"  'H'  stands  for  Hilda,"  he  answered,  with  the  pupils 
of  his  eyes  distending.  "D'you  know  who  that  is? 
It  's  your  mother." 


"THE  COMFORTABLE  CRUCIFIXION"       293 


<( ' 


No!  .  .  .  No!"  Olga  hissed  her  negation  as  though 
she  had  been  struck  with  a  whip. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes,  it  was,"  cried  Montague  excitedly. 
"It  was  your  motlier,  yours  and  mine!  I  found  out 
more  than  that — the  whole  pretty  story.  Oh,  my  God ! 
the  playthings  of  idle  passions,  eh  ?  This  Grubhof er  was 
engaged  to  marry  an  Irish  girl.  They  were  both  young. 
He  left  her  in  Liverpool  because  he  heard  your  mother 
sing  one  day  at  a  concert.  He  followed  her  to  London. 
She  was  a  singer,  you  know,  quite  a  concert  artist.  He 
followed  'er  about  like  a  dog.  I  believe  she  led  'ira  on, 
amused  'erself  with  'im,  then  chucked  'im  and  ran  away. 
It  must  'ave  bin  a  fine  old  game.  Lord  knows  what 
'appened  precisely.  The  Irish  girl  turned  up,  and  there 
was  pretty  good  trouble,  no  doubt.  Suddenly  one  day 
she  runs  off  with  Nathan  Bardel;  a  tailor  from  White- 
chapel," 

Montague  feverishly  licked  the  end  of  his  cigarette 
and  looked  at  his  sister  furtively.     Then  he  continued : 

"A  lot  of  the  rest  of  it  is  what  you  call  'conjecture,' 
eh?  and  things  what  the  lawyer  found  out.  'E  was  a 
nice  bloke  to  me.  'E  knew  Uncle  Grubhofer  in  those 
days  hisself.  'E  says  'e  was  a  good-looking  bloke  and 
used  to  attend  church  and  all  that.  When  this  'ere 
business  'appened,  when  she  went  off  with  the  tailor, 
the  lawyer  says  'e  collapsed  like  a  pack  o'  cards.  'E 
lor.st  'is  moral  sense,  says  the  lawyer.  'E  went  in  for 
awful  vices  and  spoilt  'is  figure ;  then  'e  became  religious 
— you  know,  mad  religious.  Then  'e  chucked  that,  as 
though  it  weren't  no  bally  consolation,  and  went  after 
'er  again.  'E  followed  'er,  and  made  'er  life  a  misery. 
'E  lent  Bardel  money,  tied  'im  up  with  contracts  and 


294  OLGA  BARDEL 

got  'im  in  'is  power.  Then  'e  went  to  live  with  'em, 
'E  terrorized  their  lives,  d '  you  understand  ?  'E  was 
clever,  and  Bardel  was  a  fool." 

The  air  was  tense  and  strained ;  the  brother  and  sister 
gazed  at  each  other.  The  accordion  was  droning  on, 
and  a  voice  kept  ascending : 

An'  he  left  his  little  yaller  gal 

On  the  ole  plantation. 

Yalloloo!     Yallaloo!   he  left  his  yaller  gal. 

You  may  hear  her  sighin', 

You  may  hear  her  dyin' 

On  the  ole  plantation. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Olga  after  a  long  pause,  ''why  did — 
If  Uncle  was  fond  of — Mother,  why  did  he — why  did  he 
treat  her  children — like  he  did?" 

"The  lawyer  'ad  'is  theory  about  that,"  answered 
Montague.  "  It  's  in  some  ways  the  only  good  point 
about  the  'ole  awful  business.  'E  believes  that  in  spite 
of  everything — Mother  never — " 

Montague's  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  and  neither  of 
them  dared  look  at  each  other. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  Olger — whatever  might  be 
said,  we  're  Nathan 's  children !  Don 't  you  know  'ow 
'e  liked  to  'arp  on  that? — 'Nathan's  children,'  'e  says! 
It  was  always  that.  'E  saw  all  'is  chances  go,  'e  became 
sort  of  withered,  sour,  desperit,  cruel.  'E  nurtured  an 
'atred  against  Nathan's  children.  'E  worked  out  'is 
starved  passions  on  'em,  d'you  see?  What  was  it  the 
lawyer  calls  it?  A  sort  of  noorosis!  Oh,  ray  God! 
D'you  know  why  me  and  Karl  quarreled  in  the  end? 
It  was  all  over  the  nine  thousand  quid  we  never  got. 
I  says  to  'im  one  night,  'Well,  thank  God,  Mother  wasn't 


*'TIIE  COMFORTABLE  CRUCIFIXION"       295 

a  harlot!'  and  'e  says,  'Harlot  be  damned!  We  might 
'ave  had  nine  thousand  quid  ! '  D '  you  'ear  that  ?  'E 
says,  '"We  might  'ave  'ad  nine  thousand  quid!'  D'you 
see  what  'e  meant?  When  'e  says  that,  I  struck  'im 
over  the  mouf." 

Olga  jumped  up,  and  the  tears  started  from  her 
strained  eyes. 

"Oh,  Montague,"  she  said,  "I  'm  glad  you  did  that!" 

A  strange  silence  followed,  each  feeling  a  quivering 
sense  of  satisfaction  in  the  communal  understanding 
between  them,  but  each  shuddering  under  the  shadow  of 
these  dubious  passions  that  had  clouded  the  past. 

"What  could  she  have  meant,"  murmured  Olga  after 
a  time,  "by  'This  can't  go  on'?" 

"Women  are  different  to  men,  Olger;  you  know  that 
by  now,  don't  you?  I  can't  explain  it.  She  likes  the 
glamour  of  things,  but  man  is  more  of  an  out-and-out — 
devil.  'E  wants  all  'is  satisfaction  or  nothing.  D'you 
know  what  I  mean?  I  don't  profess  to  know  what 
'appened  in  that  'ouse  in  Canning  Town,  only  I  look  on 
the  fact  that  Uncle  Grubhofer  was  cruel  to  us  as  a  satis- 
factory sign." 

Olga  looked  at  him  quickly  and  said : 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes,  I  see  what  you  mean.  I  shall  take 
it  so  too.  I  'm  glad  you  've  thought  like  this,  Mon- 
tague. ' ' 

Montague  got  up  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 

"I  'ave n't  always,  God  'elp  me!  You  only  learn 
things  by  experience,  by  suffering.  I  believed  the  worst 
of  everything  then.  After  leaving  Karl  I  think  I  lost 
my  'moral  sense'  too — as  the  old  man  said.  I  'd  saved 
up  fifty  pound  in  Scotland,  and  I  spent  the  lot  inside 


296  OLGA  BARDEIi 

three  weeks.  I  was  as  mad  as  Karl  at  losing  the  nine 
thousand  quid,  only  in  my  most  drunken  moments  I 
never  lost  sight  of  that  point — my  mother  was  straight. 
I  stuck  to  it  in  my  mind  that  my  mother  was  straight. 
I  just  insisted  on  it,  but  I  didn't  attempt  to  prove  it 
to  myself  till  afterwards.  When  I  got  through  my 
money  I  worked  my  way  out  to  South  America  in  a 
cargo  steamer  from  Bristol.  I  was  very  ill  on  the  way 
and  I  suffered  hell.  There  was  a  Liverpool-Irish  mate 
who  was  over  us — ' ' 

Montague  stared  at  the  wall,  and  passed  his  hand  over 
his  brow,  as  though  the  memories  of  that  voyage  were 
too  horrible  to  look  back  on. 

"I  did  all  sorts  of  job  in  Buenos  Aires,  on  the  wharf, 
in  stores,  looking  after  cattle,  begging  and  touting  in 
every  way.  I  got  locked  up  once.  It  was  some  business 
in  connection  with  a  faro  club.  I  made  my  way  to 
Mexico  after  that  and  lived  for  a  long  time  on  the  ranch 
of  a  religious  Scotchman  who  had  married  a  Creole 
woman.  They  starved  me  and  made  me  work  fourteen 
hours  a  day,  but  there  was  something  about  the  place  I 
liked;  it  was — big — romantic,  you  know;  old  buildings 
and  great  open  prairies.  I  left  there  because  the  Scotch- 
man murdered  the  Creole  woman,  bashed  'er  with  the 
butt  end  of  a  gun — mad  jealous  'e  was.  You  couldn't 
believe  it — she  was  one  of  the  ugliest  trolls  you  ever  see. 
'E  managed  to  hush  the  matter  up,  but  I  cleared  out. 
I  hid  on  a  train  and  made  my  way  up  to  New  Orleans. 
It  was  there  that  I  met  Tania." 

Montague  stopped  and  looked  at  his  sister;  then  he 
leaned  forward  on  his  knees  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground. 


*'THE  COMFORTABLE  CRUCIFIXION"       297 

"I  don't  know  now  whether  I  'm  glad  or  sorry  I  met 
'er.  She  was  an  American  girl  of  Russian  extraction — 
'er  mother  was  Russian.  She  tended  a  bar  there,  and 
there  was  always  a  lot  of  fellers  'anging  round  'er,  I 
fell  mad  in  love  with  'er.  I  crawled  after  'er,  and  tried 
to  get  'er  to  run  away  with  me.  But  she  was  like  a  lot 
of  'em,  liked  to  mess  about  and  lead  you  on,  and  play 
off  one  against  another.  There  was  a  feller  there,  a  big 
man,  a  foreman  in  an  oil  fuel  works.  'E  warned  me  off 
'er,  and  shot  at  me  one  day  with  his  gun,  breaking  my 
arm.  I  was  in  the  'orspital  for  some  time.  \^nien  I  come 
out  I  goes  back  to  'er.  I  'd  'ad  a  lot  of  time  to  think  of 
'er,  and  I  was  madder  than  ever.  I  told  'er  a  lot  of  lies 
and  said  I  'ad  money  and  I  'd  mate  her  rich.  She  fell  to 
it  at  last,  and  said  she  'd  go  off  with  me.  I  was  desperit 
and  did  n  't  know  what  to  do,  and  I  stole  four  hundred 
dollars  from  a  cigar  merchant  I  knew  in  the  town.  But 
the  oil  foreman  got  wind  of  it  some'ow  and  blew  the 
gaff  on  me.  I  was  shoved  in  quod  again.  "When  I 
comes  out  she  was  living  with  the  oil  man.  I  nearly 
went  out  of  my  mind  and  drowned  myself.  .  .  .  One 
day  I  'ears  as  'e  's  treating  'er  cruelly  and  beatin'  'er. 
I  lay  in  wait  for  'im,  and  when  'e  comes  along  I  chal- 
lenges 'im  to  fight.  I  knew  'e  'd  kill  me,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  the  only  way.  'E  scowls  at  me  and  says,  'IMeet 
me  to-morrer  morning  at  eight  o'clock  at  Scragg's 
Gully. '  I  never  slept  that  night,  but  I  was  there  to  time 
in  the  morning.  'E  came  alone  and  we  each  'ad  our 
gun.  At  thirty  paces  we  started  blazing.  'Is  second 
shot  clipped  the  top  of  my  ear  and  then  'is  machine 
jammed.  I  'card  'im  growl  and  rush  at  me.  I  could 
'ave  shot  'im  like  a  dog.    But  I  don't  know  'ow  it  was 


298  OLGA  BARDEIi 

I  could  n't  bring  myself  to  do  it.  I  threw  my  gun  down 
and  went  at  'im.  'E  seemed  surprised  and  knocked 
me  clean  over  with  his  first  blow.  I  was  sort  of  uncon- 
scious. I  saw  'im  stoop  and  pick  up  my  gun.  I  thought 
'e  was  goin'  to  finish  me.  'E  came  up  and  stared  in  my 
face.  Then  I  saw  'im  throw  the  gun  away,  and  'e  threw 
some  water  over  my  face  and  sat  down.  After  a  time 
I  got  up  and  we  both  walked  back  to  New  Orleans  with- 
out speakin'.  When  we  got  there  Tania  had  gone! 
There  was  no  trace  of  'er.  We  both  went  rampaging 
around  and  on  a  clue  I  got  I  followed  'er  to  Charleston, 
Virginia.  When  I  got  there,  she  'd  left.  I  followed 
'er  around  for  four  months.  At  last  I  got  to  Chicago, 
It  was  one  da}^  in  the  summer.  I  'd  fairly  got  on  the 
track  of  'er  this  time.  She  was  a  singer,  you  know,  and 
could  dance  too  like  the  best  of  'em.  I  found  'er  living 
in  a  brothel  on  Lake-side.  That  did  me.  I  went  raving 
mad.  I  bought  neat  spirit  and  raged  like  a  maniac 
from  morning  to  night.  I  made  up  my  mind  one  night 
I  'd  finish  myself.  I  made  straight  down  towards  the 
lake  in  the  darkness.  Suddenly  I  feels  a  great  'and  on 
my  shoulder  and  I  looks  round.  It  was  the  oil  fore- 
man." 

Montague  wetted  his  lips  nervously  and  pulled  at  his 
beard. 

"I  s'pose  that  's  the  rummiest  thing  that  could  ever 
'appen  to  any  one.  'E  says  to  me,  '  'Ere,  pard,  don't 
put  on  that  way;  come  with  me.'  I  followed  'im  to  a 
room  at  the  top  of  a  building  near  a  wharf.  'E  'ad  a 
curious  set  expression  on  'is  face.  'E  opened  the  winder 
and  said,  'Listen!'  I  could  'ear  in  the  distance  the 
sound  of  music  and  dancin'  and  tambourines  goin'.     'E 


<< 


THE  COMFORTABLE  CRUCIFIXION"       299 


comes  close  up  to  me  and  says,  'No  one  ain't  got  no 
darned  monopoly  in  crucifixion, '  'e  says.  I  could  n  't 
catch  the  drift  of  'im  at  first,  but  I  did  after  a  time. 
'Why  should  yer  burn  yer  soul  out,'  'e  says,  'when  you 
can  come  'ere  and  be  comfortably  crucified?'  Com- 
fortably crucified !  My  Gawd !  I  tried  to  fix  that  in 
my  mind.  D'you  know  'ow  it  is,  Olger?  Somethin' 
seemed  to  come  crashin'  through  my  brain  like  a  blaze 
of  light.  I  think  'e  was  mad — the  oil  merchant — stark, 
raving  mad.  But  'e  wasn't  altogether  mad  when  'e 
said  that.  A  comfortable  crucifixion !  Think  of  it ! 
Don't  you  know,  it  was  the  idea  of  findin'  a  sort  of  sanc- 
tuary— is  n't  that  the  word? — in  what  you  was  suffering. 
'E  'ired  this  room  right  above  the  place  where  she  was 
carryin'  on,  and  'e  come  'ere  and  'comfortably  cruci- 
fied' himself.  Did  you  ever  'ear  anything  like  it?  I 
come  away  then.  I  give  'im  best.  I  'd  thought  I  'd 
loved  the  girl,  but  I  see  that  this  big  savage  oilman  left 
me  guessing.  I  seemed  to  see  lots  of  things  I  'ad  n  't 
seen  before.  It  was  as  though  all  this  vileness  and 
wretchedness  could  be  stood  up  against.  There  was  us 
two — a  couple  of  the  choicest  blackguards  in  the  Middle 
West,  who  'd  tried  to  kill  each  other  in  our  passion  for 
this  girl,  looking  at  each  other  like  a  couple  of  lambs 
in  that  dark  room,  listenin'  with  beatin'  'earts  to  the 
tambourines  and  the  sound  of  swishin'  skirts,  lookin'  at 
each  other  with  a  sort  of  understandin',  as  though  at 
any  minute  life  might  begin  all  over  again.  A  com- 
fortable crucifixion!     My  Gawd!" 

"You  may  hear  hor  siphin', 
You  may  hear  her  dyin' 
On  the  ole  plantation." 


300  OLGA  BARDEL 

Montague  wiped  his  brow.  Suddenly  he  stood  up  and 
put  out  his  hands : 

"I  'ope  you  '11  be  'appy  in  the  life  you  lead,  Olger," 
he  said. 

She  felt  an  overbearing  contraction  of  her  heart. 
She  wanted  to  help  Montague  and  at  the  same  time  to 
cry  her  eyes  out.     At  last  she  managed  to  say: 

"Montague,  I  've  been  getting  on  quite  well,  and  my 
husband  is  well  off.    Will  you  let  me  help  you?" 

"How  could  you  help  me?"  he  said  quickly.  He 
pondered  for  some  moments,  and  then  added,  "I  'm 
glad  you  're  happy,"  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as 
though,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  interview  was 
at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  RETURN 

THERE  is  surely  nothing  so  green  as  the  green 
of  Devonshire  on  a  morning  in  April.  The 
boat  train  with  its  load  of  sleepy  occupants 
crawled  through  the  sea  mists  of  Plymouth  just  after 
dawn  and  raced  away  towards  London.  How  strange 
and  penetrating  is  this  nostalgia  of  familiar  and  en- 
dearing things  to  one  who  travels.  Olga  suddenly  real- 
ized that  during  her  three  months'  tour  in  America  she 
had  never  seen  anything  really  green.  Gay  hedges  and 
precipitous  slopes  flashed  by.  The  green  was  slashed 
here  and  there  by  red  clay,  and  cattle  of  a  very  similar 
color  struck  a  vivid  note.  She  recalled  the  holiday  she 
had  spent  there  with  Harry  and  the  youngest  child  and 
the  Streathams.  She  feared  she  had  been  a  poor  holi- 
day companion  that  year,  keeping  too  much  to  herself, 
pandering  to  those  feelings  that  held  her  in  abstraction. 
She  must  make  up  for  that.  They  would  go  to  Devon- 
shire again  this  year.  She  would  try  and  be  more  com- 
panionable. Soon  the  boys  would  be  growing  up.  She 
would  have  the  joy  of  educating  them.  She  would  make 
them  ambitious — in  the  finest  sense.  Had  she  always 
been  fair  to  Harry?  It  was  very  difficult.  She  had 
looked  up  to  him  so  at  first,  relied  on  him.     And  then, 

when  she  had  found — something  missing — when  she  had, 

301 


302  OLGA  BARDEL 

as  it  were,  to  take  the  lead,  he  had  seemed  to  shrink  from 
her.  He  had  not  argued  with  her.  He  had  simply- 
avoided  every  question  on  which  they  had  differed,  treat- 
ing her  with  an  aloofness  not  untouched  with  contempt. 
She  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  develop  a  new 
intimacy.  She  would  make  him  talk,  even  if  they  quar- 
reled. Quarrels  may  be  outlived,  but  suppression  breeds 
alienation,  indifference.  .  .  .  She  would  get  down  to 
what  he  really  thought.  She  would  try  and  understand 
his  point  of  view,  she  would  in  any  case  sympathize 
with  it  if  she  did  not  agree.  They  must  be  more  to 
each  other.  And  she  would  fire  him  with  new  ambi- 
tions. 

She  had  breakfast  on  the  train,  and  talked  to  a  nice 
American  doctor  and  his  wife.  She  felt  garrulous  and 
cheerful,  more  cheerful  than  she  had  felt  for  many  years. 
As  the  train  passed  through  Surrey,  she  remembered  the 
morning  when  she  had  returned  from  her  visit  to  Irene 
at  "Lar-r-sham."  It  was  just  such  a  morning  as  this. 
She  remembered  how  proud  she  had  felt  when  the  work- 
man had  asked  her  if  she  minded  having  the  window  up. 
And  then  the  approach  through  the  gray  ponderous 
loveliness  of  London.  There  it  was,  looking  just  the 
same!  supremely  indifferent  to  whether  she  came  or 
went.  Would  Harry  be  at  the  station?  It  was  rather 
early  for  him.  He  would  not  know  perhaps  what  time 
the  train  arrived.  Perhaps  he  would  have  telephoned 
and  found  out,  and  driven  down  in  a  taxi?  She  would 
not  allow  herself  to  expect  him.  It  was  perhaps  too 
much  to  expect.  Nevertheless  she  would  keep  her  eyes 
open.  There  was  all  the  business  of  getting  her  things 
through  the  customs — not  that  he  was  much  good  at  that. 


THE  RETURN  303 

poor  boy!    Would  he  have  altered?    What  would  the 
children  look  like? 

Signal  boxes  flashed  by  and  great  converging  masses 
of  rails  on  either  side.  The  train  was  slowing  down. 
Her  heart  beat  quickly.  There  was  a  rumble  and  a  few 
spasmodic  jerks  by  the  engine,  and  then  they  rolled 
alongside  the  big  platform.  Immediately  all  was  con- 
fusion. She  gripped  a  few  belongings  and  with  great 
difficulty  secured  a  porter.  There  was  a  crowd  waiting 
to  meet  people.  For  a  second  she  thought  she  saw  him 
— a  young  man  in  a  felt  hat — but  it  was  not  he,  it  was 
a  boy  waving  to  an  elderly  couple.  She  spent  half  an 
hour  at  the  customs  barrier.  It  was  very  cold,  and  she 
felt  impatient.  At  last  all  her  things  were  passed,  and 
she  was  installed  in  a  cab.  She  tipped  the  porter  an 
unreasonable  sum,  and  they  glided  off  through  the  yard. 
Home!  In  half-an-hour  she  would  indeed  be  home. 
She  had  not  thought  it  possible  that  she  would  ever  be 
so  happy  at  the  prospect  of  getting  back  to  that  home 
in  Hampstead.  How  dear  and  familiar  and  slow-going 
the  streets  of  London  seemed !  The  cab  darted  across 
the  river,  skirted  the  Strand  and  went  up  Wellington 
Street.  What  was  that  occasion  when  she  had  felt  so 
remarkably  like  she  did  at  that  moment?  She  remem- 
bered !  It  was  when  she  returned  from  the  visit  to  ]\Iiss 
Kenway,  when  she  had  kept  on  exclaiming,  "Look! 
Look!"  She  yearned  to  say  this  to-day.  She  felt  very 
young,  as  though  she  had  never  been  in  a  cab  before. 
She  wanted  to  say  * '  Look !  Look ! ' '  when  they  passed 
the  barrows  in  Camden  Town,  and  she  wanted  to  sing 
when  the  cab  wound  its  way  up  Hampstead  Hill.  In 
five  minutes  she  would  be  home !     April !  and  the  little 


304  OLGA  BARDEL 

green  buds  were  already  bursting  forth  in  the  Hamp- 
stead  Gardens.  Here  was  the  road!  How  slowly  the 
driver  seemed  to  crawl  along!  She  had  to  call  out  of 
the  window : 

"A  little  further  along,  on  the  right — Wildwood!" 

They  creaked  into  the  drive  and  drew  up.  She  sprang 
out  of  the  cab  and  rang  the  bell.  A  strange  maid 
opened  the  door  and  looked  at  her  rather  solemnly.  "I 
didn't  know  Ellen  had  left,"  she  thought.  But  she 
smiled  gaily  at  the  new  maid  and  walked  straight  in. 
She  looked  into  the  dining-room  and  the  drawing-room, 
but  Harry  was  not  there. 

"The  lazy  darling!"  she  thought.  "He's  not  up 
yet." 

She  ran  up  the  stairs  and  darted  into  the  bedroom. 
The  bed  was  made  up,  but  it  had  not  been  slept  in.  And 
then  a  strange  and  uncanny  feeling  came  over  her.  She 
walked  down  the  stairs  more  slowly.  The  new  maid 
was  carrying  in  some  things.     She  said  to  her: 

"Will  you  pay  the  cabman?"  and  she  handed  her 
some  silver. 

She  went  into  the  dining-room.  It  was  all  very  neat 
and  clean,  almost  as  she  had  left  it.  A  large  fire  was 
crackling.  Her  eye  searched  the  room  and  alighted  on 
the  mantelpiece.  There  were  two  letters  there.  She 
went  up  on  tiptoe  and  looked  at  them.  They  were  both 
addressed  to  her  and  in  writing  that  she  recognized. 
She  touched  them  with  her  hand,  and  then  drew  back, 
and  suddenly  looked  at  the  door.  For  some  unaccount- 
able reason,  she  tiptoed  across  the  room  again  and  locked 
it.  Then  she  stared  across  the  room  at  the  two  notes. 
She  felt  physically  sick,  and  had  to  lean  on  the  table. 


THE  RETURN  305 

Then  very  slowly  she  went  up  to  them.  She  picked  them 
uj)  with  trembling  hands  and  threw  them  on  to  the 
table.  She  could  not  account  for  the  sense  of  guilty 
furtiveness  that  possessed  her.  She  dreaded  being  seen. 
She  went  to  the  window  and  made  sure  that  no  one  could 
see  through  the  curtains.  Then  she  went  back  and  lis- 
tened at  the  door.  Tiie  maid  had  apparently  dismissed 
the  cabman — there  was  no  sound  of  her.  Then  she  took 
up  the  letters  and  sat  in  the  easy  chair  by  the  fire,  and 
opened  them.  Curiously  enough  she  opened  Mollie's 
first.  She  was  in  no  fit  state  to  read  coherently;  she 
saw  the  writing  through  a  jangled  vision.  She  tried  to 
read  the  whole  letter  at  a  glance.  She  had  the  impres- 
sion of  a  sequence  of  wild  appeals. 

Oh,  my  dear  [it  ran],  how  can  I  ever  expect  you  to  forgive  me? 
You  can't  imagine  what  I  have  suffered  and  do  suffer  through  you, 
dear.  The  thought  of  you  is  killing  nie.  But  oh,  my  dear,  it  is 
all  so  inexplicable,  so  frantically  difficult.  I  somehow  can't  be- 
lieve it  is  really  wrong.  God  would  not  allow  such  a  feeling.  I 
feel  sure,  dear,  you  cannot  love  him  as  I  love  him.  I  have  lain 
awake  at  night  struggling  with  tliis  thing.  But  it  is  no  good. 
Oh,  my  dear  Olga,  you  will  be  brave  about  this?  I  cannot  believe 
that  it  can  ever  have  been  so  much  to  you  as  it  is  to  me — 

There  was  more  of  this  letter,  but  before  she  had  got 
to  these  words  she  was  reading  Harry's,  starting  in  the 
middle. 

To  say  more  would  be  madness.  Please  try  and  be  charitable  to 
me,  Olga.  You  are  so  splendid.  I  know  you  will  have  the 
strength  to  live  this  down.  I  know  that  in  your  inmost  heart 
you  rather  despise  me,  and  for  years  your  love  for  me  has  cooled 
as  your  ambitions  have  increased.  Of  course  everything  shall  be 
done  for  you.  You  shall  have  the  custody  of  the  children,  and 
half  my  income.     I  enclose  the  name  and  address  of  my  lawyers, 


306  OLGA  BARDEL 

who  will  see  that  everything  is  arranged  as  you  wish.  To  make 
excuses  would  be  ridiculous.  It  simply  seems  to  me — this  is  the 
best  thing  for  the  three  of  us.  Life  is  a  short  business,  and  I  do 
not  believe  in  three  people  being  unhappy  because  of  the  conven- 
tions. Since  the  birth  of  Richard  we  seemed  to  drift  apart  and  to 
have  little  in  common.  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  this  may  have 
been  as  much  my  fault  as  yours.  But  I  am  sure  you  will  be 
reasonable  about  it — 

There  was  more  of  this  letter  also,  but  it  blurred  in 
her  brain.  She  put  a  hand  to  her  bosom,  and  the  room 
became  dark.  But  something  inside  her  kept  saying, 
"Don't  give  way."  She  went  down  on  her  knees  and 
peered  into  the  fire,  as  though  she  expected  to  find  some 
fuller  explanation  there.  Somehow  this  had  never 
occurred  to  her.  Her  whole  mental  attitude  would  have 
to  alter,  everything  would  have  to  be  on  a  different  basis. 
But  her  immediate  efforts  were  required  to  stem  the 
flood  of  self-pity  and  the  sense  of  outrage.  She  could 
not  deny  to  herself  that  she  had  been  yearning  for  her 
husband,  for  the  touch  of  him  and  the  sight  of  him. 
But  now — she  would  never  see  him  again,  never,  never, 
never !  Even  if  she  did  see  him  he  would  be  a  stranger. 
All  the  little  sacred  intimacies  of  their  connection  came 
crowding  upon  her,  the  memory  of  his  voice  and  of  the 
moments  when  he  had  been  kind  and  affectionate.  It 
seemed  so  cruel,  so  terribly  cruel  and  sudden.  Had  she 
been  a  fool  to  go  away?  and  to  ask  Mollie  to  come  and 
keep  an  eye  on  the  children?  She  fought  against  this 
feeling.  If  it  had  got  to  happen,  perhaps  it  were  better 
to  happen  thus,  rather  than  to  linger  over  years,  and 
for  her  to  watch  its  gradual  growth,  to  be  conscious  of 
its  development,  with  all  the  secret  meetings  and  heart- 
burnings.   Poor  Mollie!  would  he  be  true  to  her  and 


THE  RETURN  307 

kind  ?  Something  told  her  that  ]\Iollie  was  a  fitter  mate 
than  she.  She  remembered  how  it  struck  her  when 
Mollie  entered  the  room,  her  appropriateness  in  the  set- 
ting of  satinwood  and  tea-cups.  She  shivered,  and  the 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  His  lawyers!  She  wished 
he  hadn't  mentioned  them  in  that  letter.  The  mention 
of  them  made  her  feel  lonelier.  She  had  come  back  to 
an  empty  world.     The  lawyers  would  look  after  her! 

*  *  Mummy !     Mummy ! ' ' 

She  started  up  and  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 
In  a  second  she  had  unlocked  the  door  and  her  arms 
were  around  her  eldest  son.  She  buried  her  face  in  him, 
for  she  dared  not  let  him  see  her  eyes. 

*'My  darling!  my  darling!"  she  kept  murmuring. 
The  nurse  came  down  the  stairs  with  the  baby,  and  the 
same  scene  was  repeated.  It  was  a  new  nurse,  an  elderly 
person.     They  were  all  just  going  out. 

'*!  '11  come  with  j^ou,"  said  Olga. 

She  spent  the  day  with  the  children,  afraid  to  leave 
them  for  a  moment.  She  fondled  them  and  played  with 
them,  and  at  seven  o'clock  helped  the  nurse  to  bathe 
them  and  put  them  to  bed.  Then  the  hours  were  ap- 
proaching that  she  dreaded.  She  sat  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room after  the  children  had  gone  to  bed,  on  an 
upright  chair  under  the  reading-lamp,  and  knitted.  She 
knitted  hard — a  woolen  comforter  for  Richard — and 
blessed  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Fittleworth  who  had  taught 
her  to  knit.  She  knitted  desperately  till  late  at  night, 
and  her  eyes  ached.  She  tried  to  control  the  riot  of 
emotions  that  pervaded  her  by  concentrating  on  one  or 
two  clear  issues:  her  duty,  her  children,  her  work. 

She  waited  till  long  after  all  the  servants  had  gone 


308  OLGA  BARDEL 

to  bed.  Then  she  turned  out  the  light  and  crept  up- 
stairs. There  were  two  bedrooms  she  might  have  used 
other  than  the  one  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  sharing 
with  Harry,  but  by  some  instinct  she  chose  the  old  room. 
It  looked  exactly  the  same  as  it  did  the  night  before  she 
left  England.  Everything  about  it  recalled  him.  She 
could  almost  see  him  moving  about  the  room,  laughing 
and  talking  and  being  impatient  about  his  collar-stud. 
She  could  hear  the  melodious  tones  of  his  voice  as  he 
addressed  her.  She  could  see  the  boyish  attitude  of  him 
as  he  sat  up  in  bed  and  "ragged"  her  about  the  time 
it  took  to  do  her  hair. 

Curiously  enough,  in  the  corner  of  the  room  was  a 
case  of  golf-clubs  that  had  been  packed  ready  to  go. 
He  had  evidently  forgotten  them.  The  golf-clubs 
affected  her  strangely.  She  took  them  with  trembling 
hands  and  put  them  under  the  bed  out  of  sight.  She 
struggled  with  herself  and  pushed  back  these  visions 
that  kept  recurring.  Very  quietly  she  got  into  bed  and 
turned  out  the  light.  She  wished  she  weren't  so  tired. 
It  made  it  so  much  more  difficult.  The  moon  was  up 
and  her  pale  light  stole  through  the  casement  curtains. 
She  knew  she  would  not  sleep,  and  yet  she  was  so  tired. 
She  struggled  to  withstand  the  pressure  of  those  mem- 
ories. It  was  always  when  she  was  tired  that  she  wanted 
him  so  much.  She  could  at  that  moment  almost  feel 
his  arms  around  her  and  his  lips  pressed  against  her 
eyes  and  hair.  This  would  never,  never,  never  occur 
to  her  again.  Ah,  God !  she  must  not  think  of  it.  Was 
she  not  a  woman?  A  woman!  What  did  that  mean? 
Did  it  not  mean  that  she  was  entitled  to  her  weakness, 
that  she  had  the  right  to  be  loved  and  petted?     A  sud- 


TTIH  RETURN  309 

den  wave  of  self-pity  flooded  her  and  in  the  still  night 
she  sobbed  for  her  own  wretchedness.  She  seemed  to 
see  her  life  in  perspective,  her  sordid  childhood,  the  even 
more  sordid  period  when  she  was  exploited  by  the  Du 
Cassons,  her  brief  years  of  happiness  with  Mrs.  Fittle- 
worth,  her  infatuation  for  Harry,  her  disillusionment, 
the  stifling  of  her  talents  and  her  spiritual  ambitions, 
and  then — this!  outrage!  betrayal!  She  was  alone, 
utterly  alone,  as  she  had  always  been,  as  she  would 
always  be.  Her  loves  and  affections  had  proved  illu- 
sions. The  man  she  had  taken  for  a  god  had  come,  taken 
his  meed  of  her,  and  passed  on  to  another  woman. 
Could  the  children  of  such  a  passion  be  all  in  all  to  her  ? 
"Would  they  not,  on  the  contrary'-,  be  a  constant  torment  ? 
Could  happiness  in  any  form  ever  come  to  her  again  ? 

Happiness!  What  was  it  Montague  had  said? — "the 
happier  you  are,  the  narrower  the  circle."  "SYas  that 
so  ?  Was  there  a  greater  circle,  something  that  stretched 
out  and  embraced  the  heavens?  Strange!  in  that  hour 
her  mind  kept  recurring  to  ]\rontague.  She  remembered 
the  queer  independent  way  he  turned  to  her  as  she  was 
going,  and  said,  "How  could  you  help  me?"  What 
did  he  mean  by  that?  Could  we  not  help  each  other? 
or  were  we  all  utterly  alone,  alone  to  follow  these  rings 
of  light,  to  find  our  own  place  among  the  stars?  Mon- 
tague had  suffered,  he  had  been  through  every  phase  of 
sin  and  sorrow,  and  he  had  turned  to  her  and  with  a 
certain  buoyancy  had  said,  "How  could  you  help  me?" 
It  was  as  though  out  of  the  fires  of  the  anguish  he  had 
endured  he  had  discovered  some  secret.  He  had  some 
quality  that  Karl  had  not,  and  that  Irene  had  not.  She 
wondered  whether  she  could  not  find  it  in  herself.  .  .  . 


310  OLGA  BARDEL 

Suddenly  she  got  out  of  bed  and  took  the  case  of 
golf -clubs  from  under  it  and  put  them  on  a  chair  by  the 
window,  so  that  she  could  see  them  by  the  light  of  the 
moon. 

Her  eyes  were  dry,  and  she  smiled  ironically.  "This 
is  what  Montague  would  call  my  'comfortable  crucifix- 
ion,' "  she  said. 

She  lay  there  a  long  time  looking  at  the  golf-clubs, 
and  after  a  while  the  bitterness  passed  from  her  and  she 
slept.  It  was  a  fitful  sleep,  and  half  an  hour  later  she 
was  awake  again  and  thinking,  "It  was  not  his  fault. 
God  made  him  like  that.  If  he  wanted  her  more  than 
me  it  was — only  natural."  Then  she  sighed  and  mut- 
tered, "Poor  Mollie!" 

Near  dawn  she  was  becoming  feverish.  She  had  slept 
little  and  could  not  think  coherently.  She  took  some 
phenacetin  and  tried  again. 

"It  's  got  to  be  lived  through,"  she  thought. 

At  half-past  seven  a  maid  came  in  and  pulled  back 
the  curtains  and  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea.  She  was 
beginning  to  feel  sleepy,  but  after  drinking  the  tea  she 
got  up  and  went  into  the  bathroom.  The  children  were 
already  up  and  singing  about  the  house.  She  had  a 
warm  bath,  and  then  a  cold  one,  and  as  she  rubbed  her- 
self down  with  the  towel  she  made  one  definite  decision. 
She  committed  Harry's  lawyers  "to  the  devil."  She 
would  have  none  of  them.  She  had  made  a  few  hundred 
pounds  in  America.  She  would  touch  none  of  his 
money.  She  would  keep  the  children  herself.  This 
thought  stimulated  her. 

"There  will  be  a  lot  to  do,"  she  kept  thinking. 

And  in  this  surmise  she  was  not  incorrect.     There 


THE  RETURN  311 

followed  days  of  strenuous  toil,  and  in  their  friction  her 
bruised  heart  found  relief.  She  went  to  see  her  agents 
about  engagements.  She  made  efforts  to  get  pupils. 
She  took  a  much  smaller  house,  and  spent  two  hundred 
pounds  furnishing  it.  She  reduced  her  staff  to  a  "  cook- 
general"  and  a  nurse.  She  moved  and  left  the  letters 
from  Harry's  lawyers  unanswered.  Neither  did  she 
write  to  him  or  Mollie.  There  seemed  nothing  to  say, 
or  rather,  there  seemed  everything  to  say  or  nothing. 
She  did  not  feel  capable  of  writing,  so  she  left  it  alone. 
She  received  a  heart-broken  letter  from  Emma  in 
Scotland.  Emma  now  had  children  of  her  own,  and 
wanted  Olga  to  go  and  live  with  her.  The  idea  appeared 
to  Olga  to  be  preposterous,  and  she  found  it  difficult 
to  answer  it.  Then  further  letters  came  from  Harry 
and  the  lawj^ers  and  Mollie,  all  urging  her  to  be  reason- 
able and  to  accept  the  money  "for  the  sake  of  the  chil- 
dren." The  Guildeiord  girls  called  in  a  state  of  breath- 
less emotionalism,  and  cried  and  kissed  her.  But  she 
was  unresponsive.  Then  one  day  a  very  important- 
looking  man  forced  his  way  in  and  interviewed  her.  He 
was  Harry's  lawyer.  He  talked  incomprehensibly  and 
at  great  length,  and  fluttered  papers  in  her  face.  He 
w^as  a  terrifying  person,  so  suave  and  clever  and  insin- 
cere. She  came  to  the  conclusion  after  he  had  gone  that 
what  he  really  wanted  was  that  she  should  divorce 
Harry.  She  shivered  at  the  idea,  worked  harder  at  her 
household  affairs.  The  house  and  the  children  seemed 
to  take  up  all  her  time.  She  very  seldom  got  an  oppor- 
tunity of  practising,  and  in  spite  of  the  success  she  had 
had,  engagements  seemed  hard  to  get,  and  pupils  even 
more  so.     She  knew  that  her  money  would  not  last  for- 


312  OLGA  BARDEU 

ever,  and  she  would  have  to  make  desperate  efforts  to 
get  more  work. 

The  only  person  who  seemed  sympathetic  to  her  in 
those  days  was  Sir  Philip  Ballater.  He  called  a  few 
days  after  her  return  to  England.  He  made  no  refer- 
ence to  her  position,  but  was  extremely  gracious.  He 
talked  to  her  about  abstract  things,  and  listened  atten- 
tively to  her  views  on  America.  As  he  was  leaving,  he 
said  in  his  quiet  voice: 

"You  know,  dear  lady,  I  and  my  house  and  every- 
thing I  have  is  always  at  your  disposal.  It  may  be  that, 
as  I  have  had  more  experience  of  the  world,  you  may 
at  some  time  find  my  services  of  some  little  value.  Pray 
make  me  happy  by  making  use  of  them. ' ' 

She  thanked  him  sincerely,  and  did  indeed  go  to  him 
for  advice  when  she  took  her  new  house,  and,  in  fact,  in 
all  matters  connected  with  business.  She  felt  happy 
in  the  clear  detachment  of  his  views.  He  never  made 
her  feel  self-conscious  or  restless,  and  on  many  occasions 
when  the  children  were  fractious  or  the  demands  of  the 
household  insupportable,  she  would  walk  over  to  Lu- 
gano— as  his  house  was  called — and  practise  in  the 
music-room.  After  the  lawyer  had  been,  and  hinted  at 
the  question  of  divorce,  she  called  on  Sir  Philip  to  ask 
his  advice,  and  to  her  surprise  he  strongly  urged  her  to 
divorce  her  husband.  He  pointed  out  that  it  would  not 
only  make  her  freer,  but  it  would  be  better  for  Harry 
and  Mollie,  as  they  would  be  able  to  marry.  This  had 
not  occurred  to  her. 

"Why  couldn't  the  lawyer  have  said  so?"  she  ex- 
claimed, and  Sir  Philip  smiled. 


TUB  RETURN  313 

"It  is  a  lawyer's  prerogative  to  talk  in  parables," 
he  answered. 

It  was  perhaps  more  for  Mollie's  sake  than  any  one's 
that  she  eventually  set  her  teeth  and  determined  to  go 
through  with  the  dreadful  business.  It  was  in  effect 
rather  less  dreadful  than  she  had  anticipated.  The  suit, 
being  undefended,  did  not  entail  a  long  trial,  but  the 
formalities  seemed  interminable.  During  those  days  she 
relied  more  and  more  upon  Sir  Philip,  and  he  took  a 
considerable  amount  of  the  unpleasant  part  of  it  out 
of  her  hands.  Her  agent  also  took  advantage  of  the 
publicity  that  the  case  created  and  booked  her  for  several 
engagements  on  the  strength  of  it. 

"This  will  be  nice  for  the  children  when  they  grow  up 
and  understand,  won't  it?"  she  said  to  Sir  Philip  when 
it  was  all  over. 

The  distinguished  director  looked  at  her  through  his 
pince-nez  and  sighed. 

"Ah!"  he  murmured  at  last.  "It  will  indeed  be 
unpleasant  knowledge,  but  it  will  be  better  than  if — the 
circumstances  had  been  reversed."  Then  he  paused, 
and  added : 

"Perhaps  one  should  not  say  it  so  soon,  dear  lady,  but 
you  are  young  yet,  very,  very  young.  It  will  perhaps 
be  best  for  the  children  if  their  mother  marries  again 
before  they  have  reached  years  of  very  great  discretion." 

Olga  did  not  answer.  The  whole  thing  was  so  tragic 
that  all  her  energies  were  devoted  to  avoiding  thinking 
of  it.  She  worked  hard  from  morning  to  night,  and 
would  not  let  herself  dwell  too  much  upon  it. 

Through  the  influence  of  Sir  Philip  she  got  appointed 


314  OLGA  BAEDEL 

as  piano  instructor  at  a  very  higli-class  girls'  school  in 
Buckinghamshire.  She  went  there  one  day  a  week,  and 
it  became  one  of  her  principal  means  of  support.  She 
soon  found  that  the  musical  profession  without  com- 
mercial backing  was  a  grim  and  serious  business.  She 
gave  another  recital,  and  although  it  was  a  fair  success, 
it  cost  her  money  and  nothing  came  out  of  it. 

"A  prophet  is  not  the  only  person  without  honor  in 
his  own  country,"  the  agent  had  said.  "It  would  be 
much  better  if  you  called  yourself  Barjelski  again." 

But  she  would  not  do  this,  and  she  continued  the 
struggle.  She  found  that  since  the  days  when  she  had 
made  a  successful  appearance,  other  girls  and  men  had 
appeared  on  the  field,  and  many  of  them  with  consid- 
erable talent,  and  many  more  with  considerable  in- 
fluence. 

"Given  a  certain  technical  proficiency,"  the  agent, 
who  was  something  of  a  cynic,  had  said,  ' '  and  there  is  n  't 
one  person  in  five  hundred  who  knows  the  difference 
between  a  great  performance  and  a  good  performance. 
After  that  it  's  all  a  question  of  push,  luck,  and 
influence." 

At  the  same  time  he  strongly  advised  her  not  to  ad- 
vertise for  pupils. 

"If  you  once  do  that,  you  're  labeled  as  a  teacher. 
You  go  down  the  sink." 

"Well,  what  shall  I  do?"  she  asked. 

"Try  another  tour  abroad — Germany,  Holland  or  the 
States,"  he  suggested. 

But  in  these  cases  it  meant  another  outlay  of  money 
she  did  not  feel  justified  in  speculating  with.  "You  are 
a  fool, ' '  some  one  said  to  her  one  day.     ' '  Why  don 't  you 


TUB  KETURN  315 

let  the  man  pay  for  the  keep  and  education  of  the  chil- 
dren? They  're  his.  He  's  responsible.  He  's  got  the 
money,  and  he  's  quite  willing  to."  But  against  this 
idea  she  fought  tooth  and  nail.  Neither  could  she  be 
reasonable  about  it  even  to  herself.  She  felt  that  if  she 
kept  the  children  she  would  to  an  extent  justify  herself, 
it  would  be  a  sop  to  her  pride.  It  was  strange  that,  in 
spite  of  her  sordid  upbringing,  this  w^as  the  first  time 
that  she  had  been  seriously  up  against  material  condi- 
tions. She  hated  and  despised  them,  and  would  not 
acknowledge  them  her  master. 

"None  of  these  things  shall  make  a  slave  of  me,"  she 
thought. 

But  the  struggle  was  long  and  bitter.  At  the  end  of 
the  year  the  eight  hundred  pounds  that  she  possessed 
had  been  reduced  to  one  hundred  and  fifty,  and  there 
were  many  bills  owing.  Yet  she  surprised  many  people 
with  her  youthfulness  and  virility  and  her  eyes  glowing 
with  the  light  of  battle. 

One  evening  after  she  had  returned  from  the  school 
in  Bucks,  Sir  Philip  called  on  her.  She  was  tired  out 
with  her  day,  but  after  she  had  washed  and  changed  her 
frock  she  came  into  the  drawing-room  looking  keen  and 
well.  He  stepped  forward  and  held  her  hand.  After 
the  usual  greetings,  he  said : 

"What  is  your  secret,  dear  friend?" 

She  looked  at  him  astonished.     "Secret?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "Everything  conspires  to 
crush  you,  but  you  look  younger  every  day.  It  is  as 
though  you  had  discovered  the  elixir  of  life's  troubles. 
Please  tell  me  the  secret." 

She  smiled.     "I  'm  glad  you  don't  think  I  look  too 


316  OLGA  BARBEL 

bothered,"  she  said.  ''I  am,  though.  It  's  a  wretched 
world ! ' '  She  stood  by  the  piano,  and  her  looks  belied 
her  words. 

Sir  Philip  seemed  curiously  nervous  and  he  fumbled 
with  his  beard. 

"I  am  desperately  ambitious,"  he  said  at  last.  ''I 
hardly  know  how  to  express  to  you  my  thoughts.  You 
are  so  young,  so  independent,  so  beautiful.  But  the 
time  comes  when  these  things  are — how  shall  we  say  it? 
— less  evocative  of  success.  It  may  become  more  dif- 
ficult. These  two  boys  must  go  to  school.  They  must 
go  into  the  world  and  have  careers.  I  am  desirous  to 
make  this  easier  of  accomplishment  for  you,  and  yet  I 
would  not  for  the  world  offend  you." 

"Ah!"  Olga  shuddered  slightly.  These  ideas  had 
occurred  to  her  on  many  an  occasion.  Schools! 
Careers!  How  on  earth  was  she  going  to  provide 
schools  and  careers  for  her  boys?  And  as  she  became 
older  it  would  become  increasingly  difficult.  She  knew 
this,  but  she  would  not  allow  herself  to  think  about  it. 

"How  could  you  help  me?"  she  said,  and  as  she  said 
it  it  flashed  through  her  mind  that  it  was  the  question 
Montague  had  put  to  her.  And  it  occurred  to  her  at 
the  same  moment  that  whereas  her  offer  had  been  put 
to  Montague  in  a  material  sense,  he  had  accepted  it  in 
a  spiritual  sense.  She  was  so  concerned  with  the  con- 
sideration of  this  strange  fact  that  for  the  moment  she 
hardly  grasped  what  Sir  Philip's  reply  was.  When  she 
did  grasp  it,  she  turned  from  him  and  gazed  at  the  lamp. 
He  had  said: 

"Perhaps  I  could  help  you  more  if  you  would  consent 
to  become  my  wife." 


THE  RETURN  317 

The  proposal  was  so  unexpected  that  it  was  some  mo- 
ments before  she  could  grasp  its  significance.  Then  she 
turned  and  looked  at  hira.  Her  first  thought  was,  *'I 
must  not  be  cruel  to  him."  He  was  so  kind,  so  gentle- 
manly, so  "safe."  She  liked  him,  she  would  not  hurt 
him  for  the  world.     Tears  came  to  her  eyes  and  she  said : 

"Oh,  please,  Sir  Philip,  you  are  so  kind.  ...  I  have 
so  few  friends.  I  don't  think  I  could  marry  you,  but 
please  forgive  me.     I  don't  want  to  lose  you." 

He  jumped  up  and  took  her  hand.  "There!  there!" 
he  said.  "It  is  I  who  must  ask  for  forgiveness.  I  am 
old—" 

"No,  no,  it  's  not  that,"  she  said  quickly.  "You  're 
not  old.  I  am  tired  to-night.  I  cannot  think  very 
clearly." 

He  drew  his  heels  together  like  a  fencer,  then  bowed 
and  kissed  her  hands. 

"I  shall  always  remain  your  good  servant  and  your 
friend,"  he  said,  and  he  smiled  with  the  expression  of  a 
man  who  was  accustomed  to  measure  time  and  space  in 
indefinite  terms.  "If  not  in  this  reincarnation,  then  in 
the  next,"  a  cold-blooded  interpreter  might  have  read 
it.  But  Olga  suddenly  ceased  to  consider  his  expression 
at  all.  Strange  forces  were  at  work  within  her.  She 
was  too  moved  to  thank  him  for  imderstanding  and  for 
treating  her  wayward  refusal  in  the  grand  manner. 

When  he  had  departed,  she  went  to  her  bedroom  and 
looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  "Why  had  he  talked  of  a 
secret?  Her  eyes  were  flushed  with  excitement.  It 
was  true — she  was  still  a  young  woman.  She  noticed 
the  curves  of  her  neck  and  shoulders  and  bosom.  She 
drew  a  shawl  round  her  shoulders  and  crept  into  the 


318  OLGA  BARDEL 

next  room,  and  peeped  at  the  two  boys  peacefully  sleep- 
ing. Then  she  returned  to  her  room  and  opened  the 
window.  It  was  February.  In  a  few  months  the  spring 
would  be  here.  Had  she  a  secret  ?  Had  n  't  every  one 
a  secret  when  they  felt  the  warm  night  wind  upon  their 
temples?  Was  not  Night,  the  mother  of  all  secrets, 
already  at  work  among  the  rustling  foliage  of  the  gar- 
den? She  knew  at  that  moment  that  from  the  hour 
when  she  had  arrived  home  and  found  the  two  notes  in 
the  dining-room,  that  she  had  had  a  secret  that  had 
buoyed  her  up  through  those  trying  days.  Perhaps  it 
was  sub-conscious,  or  it  presented  so  dazzling  a  vision 
that  she  had  not  dared  to  give  it  substance  in  her 
thoughts.  But  to-night  it  laughed  at  her  out  of  the 
whispering  leaves.  "You  have  been  acting,  playing  a 
part,"  it  seemed  to  say.  "You  are  capricious,  like  all 
women — and  men  too,  for  that  matter.  Why  not  be 
honest  with  yourself?" 

She  got  into  bed  and  turned  out  the  light.  She  had 
forgotten  about  the  proposal  of  Sir  Philip  by  this  time, 
but  before  she  went  to  sleep  she  made  a  definite  reso- 
lution. 

And  as  she  turned  restlessly  upon  her  pillow,  she 
muttered : 

"To-morrow,  to-morrow,  to-morrow!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  SANCTUARY   OP   PORCELAIN 

NEVERTHELESS  her  resolution  did  not  take 
effect  on  the  morrow,  for  early  in  the  morning 
the  nurse  came  in  to  say  that  both  the  chil- 
dren were  feverish.  A  doctor  was  called  in,  and  pro- 
nounced the  fact  that  they  were  suffering  from  measles. 
Immediately  everything  had  to  be  reconsidered.  Her 
work  had  to  be  given  up,  and  she  shared  with  the  nurse 
the  privilege  of  nursing  them.  The  youngest  boy  was 
very  ill,  and  caused  a  lot  of  anxiety.  It  was  many  days 
before  he  was  considered  safe ;  and  then  it  was  six  weeks 
before  they  were  both  free,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time 
she  was  very  run  down  herself.  The  doctor  said  that 
a  change  for  all  of  them  was  essential.  Sir  Philip  wrote 
offering  her  the  use  of  a  house  he  owned  near  Broad- 
stairs,  and  after  a  good  deal  of  misgiving,  she  accepted 
it. 

It  was  nearly  the  end  of  April  when  they  returned 
to  London,  and  Olga's  mind  was  filled  with  resolutions 
of  drastic  economies.  The  nurse  would  have  to  go,  and 
she  and  the  "cook-general"  would  have  to  manage  the 
household  on  their  own.  Expenses  in  every  way  would 
have  to  be  cut  down.  The  future  was  not  roseate,  and 
yet  when  she  went  out  into  the  little  garden  on  that  first 
morning  of  the  return  her  heart  was  singing. 

319 


320  OLGA  BARDEL" 

*'I  will  go  to-morrow,"  she  said  to  herself. 

She  passed  a  restless  night,  on  the  borderland  of 
dreams  which  were  so  beautiful  that  in  her  waking  mo- 
ments she  dare  not  contemplate  them. 

"It  is  madness,"  she  thought  as  these  recurring 
images  kept  passing  before  her. 

In  the  morning  she  dressed  herself  with  slow  but 
deliberate  cunning.  She  was  conscious  of  looking  her 
best  when  ultimately  she  kissed  the  children,  and  went 
forth  to  "do  a  little  shopping  in  town." 

It  was  a  glorious  day,  clear  and  with  light  clouds  high 
up  in  the  heavens,  and  a  warm  wind.  She  took  a  'bus 
to  Portland  Eoad  and  walked. 

"No  more  taxis  for  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  she 
enjoyed  the  rhythmic  movement  of  swinging  along  the 
broad  pavement  of  Portland  Place.  As  she  approached 
the  turning  where  the  studio  was,  she  felt  suddenly  ter- 
ribly nervous  and  self-conscious. 

"What  on  earth  am  I  doing?"  she  thought.  "Why 
am  I  coming  ?     What  will  he  think  of  me  ? " 

Her  action  seemed  so  blatant  and  importunate  that 
for  a  moment  she  hesitated  as  to  whether  she  had  not 
better  return.  She  arrived  in  front  of  the  studio  and 
stared  at  the  wrought-iron  hanging  bell.  She  stood 
there  for  some  moments  looking  up  and  down  the  street, 
her  heart  beating  rapidly.     Suddenly  she  thought: 

"How  ridiculous  of  me!  Of  course  he  won't  be  here 
now ;  he  will  have  moved,  gone  away  probably  forever ! ' ' 

She  felt  so  convinced  about  this  that  her  nerves  were 
to  some  extent  calmed,  and  she  rang  the  bell.  In  a 
few  moments  a  man  opened  the  door. 

"Can  you  tell  me  if  Mr.  John  Braille  is  living  here?" 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  PORCELAIN       321 

she  asked  quite  calmly.  She  knew  perfectly  well  that 
the  man  would  shake  his  head  and  say,  "No,  madame," 
and  so  indeed  he  did. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  where  he  lives?"  she  asked. 

The  man  stared  at  her,  and  said,  "I  '11  ask  Mr.  Gal- 
rush,  madame," 

He  disappeared,  and  Olga  stood  trembling  inside  the 
entrance.  Memories  and  associations  were  pulling  at 
her  heart-strings. 

"What  a  fool  I  am!  what  a  fool  I  am!"  she  kept 
thinking.  Presently  a  dark  Jewish-looking  painter 
appeared.  He  looked  her  up  and  down  rapidly,  and 
said: 

"Good  morning.  I  'm  afraid  I  don't  know  where  Mr. 
Braille  went  to.  He  left  here  about  two  years  ago.  I 
think  he  went  to  Rome,  but  I  'm  not  sure  whether  he  's 
there  now." 

"Oh!"  said  Olga.  "I  'm  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you. 
I  presume  you  don't  happen  to  know  the  address  he 
went  to  in  Rome?" 

The  dark  painter  looked  at  her  closely,  and  then  he 
said: 

"Will  you  come  in  a  moment?  I  '11  look  in  my 
bureau.     I  may  have  an  address." 

"It  's  very  kind  of  you,"  she  answered,  and  stepped 
through  into  the  studio.  He  showed  her  to  a  chair  and 
rummaged  among  some  papers.  She  looked  round  the 
room.  It  was  the  same  dear  room,  and  yet  how  dif- 
ferent !  All  the  glory  and  dignity  seemed  to  have 
departed.  When  Braille  lived  there  there  seemed  to  be 
nothing  in  the  studio  but  the  pifture  he  was  working 
on,  in  any  case  nothing  that  caught  the  eye.     But  this 


322  OLGA  BAEDEL 

little  dark  gentleman  had  packed  the  walls  from  floor 
to  ceiling  with  his  bright  and  meretricious  paintings. 
They  were  mostly  paintings  of  lovers  in  Napoleonic  cos- 
tumes posturing  in  sentimental  attitudes  in  neat  gardens. 

When  Olga  beheld  this  display  of  redundant  eroti- 
cism, she  felt  a  wild  and  unreasonable  dislike  of  the  little 
painter.  Braille's  studio!  Hallowed  by  the  memory 
of  him!  What  right  had  this  prosperous-looking  little 
picture  merchant  to  profane  the  shades  with  his  maudlin 
art  ?  In  the  very  spot  where  Braille  had  stood  with  his 
eye-shade  on  his  temples  gazing  at  her  with  fierce  con- 
centration, now  reposed  a  large  roll-top  desk  from  the 
corner  of  which  trailed  a  wreath  of  smoke  from  a  half- 
smoked  cigar!  The  fireplace  against  which  she  had  so 
often  seen  the  tall  erect  figure  with  the  head  thrown  back 
and  the  eyes  fixed  upon  her  wistfully  and  boyishly,  had 
been  disfigured  by  a  large  new  anthracite  stove.  There 
was  the  throne  where  she  had  sat,  where  a  new  world 
had  awakened  within  her,  now  occupied  by  a  lay  figure 
in  directoire  dress.  Mr.  Galrush  was  talking  to  her. 
He  seemed  inclined  to  be  garrulous  and  affable,  perhaps 
a  little  too  affable  even  for  one  who  had  the  audacity 
to  desecrate  a  high  temple.  She  could  not  listen  to  him, 
for  her  heart  was  aching  so.  His  face  suddenly  ap- 
peared before  her,  and  his  voice  at  last  insisted: 

"  It  is  the  only  address  I  can  find— the  Villa  Cordone, 
Rome. ' ' 

"Ah!  thank  you;  it  is  very  kind." 

"Is  there  nothing  else  I  can  do?"  He  was  smiling, 
his  fine  teeth  gleaming  beneath  his  dark  mustache.  She 
could  not  answer.  Her  eye  alighted  on  a  certain  corner 
of  the  throne.     It  was  the  spot  where  she  had  stooped 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  PORCELAIN      323 

to  tie  her  shoe-lace,  Iler  silence  did  not  seem  to  subdue 
the  little  man.     He  suddenly  blinked  at  her  and  said : 

"Are  you  interested  in  Art?"  and  he  glanced  com- 
prehensively round  the  room.  She  suddenly  felt  that 
if  he  started  showing  her  his  pictures  she  would  lose  all 
control  of  herself.  She  would  cry,  or  strike  him,  or  do 
something  equally  as  unreasonable.  She  gasped  and 
looked  at  the  card,  and  said  in  a  desperate  manner: 

"No,  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  not,"  and  she  almost  ran  to 
the  door.  The  little  man  followed  her,  and  she  kept 
saying,  "Thank  you  so  much!  It's  so  kind!"  She  did 
not  notice  the  hand  he  held  out  to  her  when  she  got 
there,  and  she  ran  up  the  street  and  hailed  a  cab.  In 
the  cab  on  the  way  home  she  became  calmer. 

"How  ridiculous  I  am!"  she  thought.  "I  knew  he 
would  n  't  be  there !  But  he  must  be — somewhere.  Per- 
haps here  in  London!"  Nevertheless  she  wished  she 
had  n't  gone.  The  memory  of  that  throne  disturbed  her, 
and  the  jarritig  self-satisfaction  of  the  little  painter. 
In  the  meantime  she  must  set  to  work.  She  had  a  great 
uphill  task  before  her.  The  boys  were  growing  up. 
Richard  already  should  be  at  school,  or  should  be  getting 
better  education  than  she  could  give  him.  She  felt 
annoyed  at  having  taken  the  cab. 

"This  sort  of  thing  must  stop,"  she  said  to  herself. 

On  her  return  home  she  set  to  work  once  more  to  get 
her  affairs  under  control.  Her  idea  of  mathematics  was 
deplorable.  She  could  not  estimate  her  income  or  her 
expenditure.  Bills  accumulated,  and  she  paid  them 
when  she  could.  The  illness  of  the  boys  and  the  conse- 
quent loss  of  work  and  expenses  in  connection  with  the 
illness  soon  put  her  in  a  desperate  position.    But  she 


324  OLGA  BARDEL 

did  not  realize  it  until  two  months  later,  when  she  dis- 
covered that  her  fees  from  the  school  where  she  taught 
did  not  amount  to  enough  to  pay  the  rent  and  the  rates, 
and  she  had  no  more.  Even  then  she  would  not  acknowl- 
edge that  it  was  a  matter  to  cause  serious  heartburning. 
She  did  the  obvious  thing.  She  went  to  Sir  Philip  and 
borrowed  fifty  pounds  from  him.  He  lent  it  to  her  with 
alacrity  and  showed  a  nice  sense  of  tact  and  thought- 
fulness  over  the  transaction.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to 
be  in  any  way  a  compromising  action.  It  was  a  natural 
thing  to  do.  Sir  Philip  had  plenty,  and  she  had  none. 
If  the  circumstances  had  been  reversed,  she  would  not 
have  hesitated  for  a  second  to  do  likewise. 

In  coping  with  overpowering  domestic  difficulties  two 
years  passed  away.  At  the  end  of  that  time  she  dis- 
covered, one  morning,  on  looking  through  her  accounts, 
that  she  owed  Sir  Philip  eight  hundred  pounds!  And 
Richard  was  now  twelve  and  should  be  sent  to  a  good 
school.  She  had  passed  through  many  vicissitudes.  She 
occasionally  got  engagements,  but  the  fees  were  small. 
She  went  on  a  tour  in  Germany,  Holland,  and  Scandi- 
navia, but  after  a  great  success  in  these  countries,  the 
agent  disappeared  with  all  her  money,  and  she  could 
not  trace  him.  Her  pupils  were  irregular  and  inter- 
mittent, but  they  were  her  chief  means  of  support.  And 
then  one  day  the  youngest  boy,  Cedric,  became  very  ill 
and  developed  appendicitis,  and  an  operation  became 
necessary. 

They  were  terrifying  days,  and  the  borrowing  of  fifty 
pounds  from  Sir  Philip  to  pay  for  the  operation  was 
only  the  least  of  the  evils. 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  PORCELAIN      325 

In  the  meantime  she  had  written  two  letters  to  John 
Braille  and  each  of  them  had  been  returned  "Gone 
away."  Neither  did  the  G'uildefords  seem  to  know  of 
his  whereabouts,  though  the  boy  jMcCartney  announced 
one  day  that  he  believed  that  Braille  was  in  Algeria, 
"painting  sand."  She  felt  convinced  of  one  thing — 
Braille  did  not  know.  He  had  not  heard  of  her  tragic 
episode  or  he  would  have  come  to  her.  And  every  day 
youth  and  life  were  slipping  away.  Surely,  surely  one 
day  she  would  see  him  standing  there  on  the  rug  by  the 
fire.  He  would  say,  "I  did  not  know.  Good  heavens! 
how  we  have  wasted  these  years!"  That  was  her 
secret.  She  would  sit  alone  in  the  evening  and  knit  or 
read  when  the  boys  were  in  bed,  and  listen  alertly.  She 
had  the  idea  that  he  would  come  in  the  evening  or  at 
some  mad  hour  of  the  night,  suddenly  and  dynamically, 
and  cry  out,  "I  did  not  know.  Forgive  me!"  She 
could  almost  hear  the  sound  of  his  voice.  Ah,  God  !  how 
her  heart  was  bursting  to  tell  him — everything — all  that 
had  happened  since  he  went  away,  all  that  she  had  felt 
and  thought,  and  the  thousand  things  she  dare  not  feel 
or  think.  Iler  dear  secret !  Without  it  she  would  have 
died. 

One  day  at  Sir  Philip's  she  heard  two  men  discussing 
Art,  and  one  said : 

"By  the  way,  there  's  a  very  good  Braille  at  the  Fine 
Arts — a  new  one  I  think — an  Arab  sheikh.  One  of  the 
finest  he  's  done." 

"Oh!"  drawled  the  other  man.  "Is  that  so?  Who 
was  it  told  me  that  they  thought  they  saw  Braille  in 
town  the  other  day?" 

The  first  man  showed  little  interest  in  this  query  and 


326  OLGA  BAKDEL 

changed  the  subject,  but  Olga's  heart  beat  rapidly.  On 
the  following  afternoon  she  hurried  through  two  lessons 
she  had  to  give,  and  went  down  to  Bond  Street.  She 
had  little  difficulty  in  spotting  the  "Braille"  in  the 
gallery.  It  seemed  to  stand  apart — a  Triton  among 
minnows — a  virile,  forceful  painting  of  the  Sheikh 
Raman  al  Elin.  She  looked  at  it  breathlessly  and  felt 
irritated  by  the  presence  of  half  a  dozen  other  people 
round  the  canvas  discussing  it  in  languid  tones.  Having 
drunk  her  fill  of  its  convincing  beauty,  she  went  to  the 
secretary's  office  and  interviewed  a  young  lady  secre- 
tary. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said,  "but  do  you  happen  to  know 
whether  Mr.  Braille  is  in  town,  and  what  his  address 
is?" 

The  young  lady  looked  at  her  nonchalantly,  and 
turned  up  a  book.  At  that  moment  a  large  man  in  a 
silk  hat,  who  had  been  standing  by  the  telephone,  came 
forward  and  smiled.  He  was  evidently  an  official  of 
some  importance.     He  said : 

"Yes,  madam,  I  can  tell  you  about  Mr.  Braille.  He 
has  been  in  town  for  a  week,  but  he  left  last  night  for 
India — with  his  wife," 

Olga  looked  at  him,  and  then  turned  her  head  quickly. 
She  had  a  feeling  that  she  was  going  to  faint.  She 
stumbled  towards  the  door.  She  was  conscious  of  the 
large  man  following  her  and  saying: 

"We  can  communicate  with  him,  madam,  if  you  wish. 
Cairns  Hotel,  Bombay — or  we  can  telegraph  to  Mar- 
seilles or  Alexandria." 

She  managed  to  say,  "No,  no,  don't  trouble,  thank 
you,"   and  got  out  into  the  passage.     But   when  she 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  PORCELAIN      327 

arrived  there,  she  did  faint.  It  was  a  very  momentary 
business,  and  two  people  and  the  manager  came  running 
up.  She  soon  pulled  herself  together  aod  they  gave  her 
smelling-salts  and  water.     She  kept  repeating: 

* '  How  stupid  of  me !  Thank  you  so  much  .  .  .  please 
don't  bother!" 

The  manager  insisted  on  putting  her  in  a  cab,  and 
she  was  grateful  for  the  attention.  It  was  a  strange 
thing  that  on  the  w^ay  home  her  mind  kept  recurring  to 
her  husband.  She  felt  weak  and  ill,  and  she  yearned 
for  his  arms  around  her.  There  were  very  few  moments 
when  she  had  allowed  herself  to  feel  this,  but  at  this 
hour  the  call  was  irresistible.  It  was  as  though  some- 
thing had  snapped  within  her  and  she  were  alone,  drift- 
ing helplesslj^  through  the  miasma  of  a  febrile  world. 
She  had  fought  hard  all  her  life  for  something  within 
her,  something  tremendous  and  worth  fighting  for,  and 
then  when  the  large  man  said,  "He  went  off  last  night 
to  India — with  his  wife, ' '  it  seemed  as  though  the  thing, 
whatever  it  was,  had  never  been  worth  fighting  for,  as 
though  it  didn't  matter.  What  was  it  she  had  been 
fighting  for?  "Nothing  will  ever  matter  again,"  she 
thought.  People  were  drifting  through  the  streets,  the 
same  people  who  had  drifted  on  the  night  when  she  went 
down  and  met  Irene  and  went  to  the  cafe.  The  drone 
of  London !  How  horrible  it  was !  She  felt  a  desire  to 
drown  herself  in  it.  How  splendid  to  be  that  third 
woman  who  was  with  Irene,  who  "loved  everything  too 
much!"  She  would  like  to  get  out  and  walk  through 
the  streets  and  speak  to  people  like  that.  Perhaps  they 
found  some  crude  satisfaction  in  their  sordid  life.  If 
only  for  a  time —    But  for  her,  what  was  there?     She 


328  OLGA  BARDEL 

knew  that  if  she  got  out  of  the  cab  she  would  be  too  tired 
to  walk.  She  would  probably  faint  again.  She  noticed 
a  bearded  and  wretched  man  crawling  along  the  gutter, 
with  his  eyes  on  the  ground;  occasionally  he  stooped 
and  picked  up  a  cigarette  end.  His  face  and  figure  were 
wasted  with  disease.  She  cried  softly  to  herself  for  pity 
of  him.  If  there  were  a  God,  how  cruel  were  His  mani- 
festations of  power.  Wliy  did  He  not  destroy  these  at 
once  and  forever  ?  "Was  this  not  better  than  the  eternal 
drone  of  remorse  and  despair?  All  around  her  was 
ugliness,  cruelty,  and  terror.  And  yet  to  that  hour  she 
had  believed!  Ah,  God!  she  knew  now  it  was  all  a 
single-minded,  selfish  love  of  hers,  something  as  rank  as 
the  weeds  around  her.  She  was  as  bad  as  the  vilest, 
as  bad  as  Uncle  Grubhofer  had  painted  her.  "One  of 
Nathan's  children,"  "fit  for  the  prisons  and  brothels," 
he  had  said.  She  had  yearned  for  her  lover.  She  would 
have  gone  to  him  immediately  and  unreservedly  at  any 
moment  that  he  had  called  her,  either  during  her  mar- 
ried life  or  after  the  divorce.  She  would  have  left  every- 
thing— her  husband,  her  children,  her  honor,  her  work. 
She  would  have  flung  them  aside  and  have  followed  him 
barefoot  through  the  world.  This  was  her  "secret"; 
this  it  was  that  through  all  the  travail  of  those  days  had 
kept  her  foot  light,  her  eye  serene,  her  brow  unclouded. 
And  suddenly  this  dream  was  shattered  and  all  around 
her  were  the  sordid  streets.  Why  did  they  go  on  living, 
all  these  people?  Many  were  too  old  to  hug  the  illusions 
that  had  buoyed  her  up,  many  were  broken  in  their 
youth.  Was  there  a  spirit  of  the  hive  like  bees  had, 
something  that  drugged  their  personal  desires  and  drove 
them  irresistibly  on  to  an  unknown  end? 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  PORCELAIN      329 

As  the  cab  was  creeping  up  through  the  darkness  of 
Haverstock  Hill,  she  suddenly  said,  "Please  God,  help 
me  to  serve  some  purpose!"  and  then  she  cried  again, 
and  shivered  in  the  corner  of  the  cab.  She  felt  calmer 
after  that,  and  peered  out  into  the  dim  streets. 

Suddenly  her  mind  wandered  back  to  Prague,  and  she 
thought  of  the  heavily  built  American  boy — Irwin  Cul- 
lum.  What  was  it  he  had  said  to  her?  Something 
about  ideas.  Ah!  yes.  ''Everything  is  illusion  except 
ideas."  She  pondered  on  this.  He  had  said  that  the 
thought  was  comforting.  And  he  talked  of  his  ambi- 
tions. He  was  going  back  to  San  Martino,  ''a  bunch  of 
wooden  shacks  nestling  in  a  valley."  And  he  had  said, 
"Don't  you  think  I  can  be  ambitious  there?" 

It  was  nice  to  think  of  Irwin  Cullum  being  ambitious 
in  his  obscure  town.  There  must  be  thousands  of  people 
like  that,  working  out  their  destiny  in  lonely  places, 
sacrificing  themselves  for  some  purpose,  living  for 
"ideas." 

When  she  entered  the  little  house  she  heard  the  maid- 
of-all-w^ork  quarreling  with  a  charwoman  in  the  kitchen. 
It  was  very  dark.  On  the  stairs  she  heard  the  laughter 
of  the  boys  in  a  room  they  played  in  in  the  front  of  the 
house — fresh,  gay,  irresponsible  laughter. 

"I  would  have  betrayed  them,"  she  thought.  She 
crept  into  the  bedroom  quietly  and  locked  the  door. 
Then  she  lay  on  the  bed  in  the  darkness  and  wept. 
After  a  time  she  bathed  her  eyes  and  went  down.  The 
boys  wanted  their  supper.  The  maid-of-all-work  was 
full  of  complaints.  Many  household  matters  had  been 
neglected  and  forgotten.  On  the  mantelpiece  were  bills 
and  a  letter  from  a  rich  pupil  saying  that  after  this  term 


330  OLGA  BARDEL 

she  would  not  be  able  to  continue  her  lessons.  The  boys 
squabbled  at  supper-time,  and  Richard  pushed  Cedric 
off  his  chair  and  he  fell  down  and  cut  his  temple.  It 
was  late  before  the  turmoil  of  the  little  house  subsided, 
and  when  at  last  the  boys  were  put  to  bed  and  the  maid 
pacified,  she  sat  alone  in  the  little  sitting-room.  On  the 
piano  she  noticed  a  layer  of  dust.  She  got  up  with  the 
idea  of  removing  this  disfigurement;  then  something 
impelled  her  to  resume  her  seat.  In  front  of  her  was  a 
pile  of  bills  and  a  letter  from  the  master  of  the  private 
school  where  Richard  attended,  saying  that  "he  con- 
sidered him  a  boy  of  considerable  promise,"  and  sug- 
gesting that  he  should  take  up  certain  subjects  with  the 
idea  of  entering  for  a  scholarship  at  a  well-known  college. 
She  heard  the  dreary  voice  of  the  maid  humming  in  the 
kitchen,  and  all  the  time  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
dust  of  the  piano.  Suddenly  she  got  up  and  made  a 
mark  with  her  thumb  on  the  dust,  as  though  she  were 
doubting  its  reality.  Then  she  sat  there  a  long  time 
thinking.  After  a  while  she  lighted  a  candle  and  went 
up  the  stairs  quietly,  and  went  into  the  boys'  room. 
They  were  sleeping  peacefully,  their  petty  squabbles  for- 
gotten, their  red,  healthy  cheeks  burrowing  into  the 
pillow.  She  listened  to  their  regular  breathing  for  some 
time,  as  though  it  meant  much  to  her,  and  then  with  her 
eyes  glistening  she  returned  to  the  sitting-room.  She 
sat  for  a  moment  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  and  looked  into 
the  grate. 

"It  is  finished,"  she  said  at  last,  and  started  at  the 
sound  of  her  own  voice.  Then  she  turned  out  the  light 
and  went  into  the  hall,  where  she  had  left  her  hat  and 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  PORCELAIN      331 

cloak.  A  desire  seemed  to  come  to  her  to  act  quickly, 
as  though  she  were  in  a  terror  of  reaction.  She  put  on 
her  hat  and  cloak  and  clutched  the  latch-key  and  went 
out.  She  walked  quickly  through  several  streets  and 
took  a  turning  that  led  up  to  the  heath.  She  found  her 
way  through  the  gorse  and  presently  arrived  at  the  door 
of  Sir  Philip's  house.  She  rang  the  bell.  It  was  now 
half-past  ten.  A  man-servant  opened  the  door.  He 
knew  her  by  sight  and  bowed  her  in. 

"Is  Sir  Philip  in?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  madame,"  he  answered. 

"Alone?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

She  shuddered  at  this  answer,  as  though  she  were  half 
hoping  it  would  be  in  the  negative,  but  she  fixed  her 
eyes  on  the  ground  and  followed  him. 

Sir  Philip  was  sitting  alone  in  the  black  and  white 
marble  hall.  He  had  on  some  gold  pince-nez  and  was 
examining  some  photogravures  of  Japanese  porcelain. 
He  rose  as  she  entered  and  the  man  retired. 

"This  is  indeed  delightful  of  you,"  he  said  when  they 
were  alone.  A  powerful  reading-lamp  illumined  the 
photogravures,  but  the  rest  of  the  room  was  dim, 
lighted  only  through  the  green  shade  on  the  lamp.  He 
did  not  turn  on  more  light,  for  he  knew  she  liked  it  like 
this.  He  also  knew  at  a  glance  that  she  came  with  some 
momentous  purpose.  She  conveyed  to  him  some  tele- 
pathic excitement,  stirring  his  pulses  strangely.  He 
pulled  a  chair  into  a  more  comfortable  position  facing 
the  fire,  and  took  her  cloak  from  her.  He  then  took  a 
seat  opposite  to  her  and  sat  there  looking  at  her  like  a 


332  OLGA  BARDEL 

large  Newfoundland  dog.  She  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
frame  a  sentence  but  she  could  not  succeed.  At  last,  to 
ease  the  situation,  he  remarked : 

"It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  in  this  dear  land  of  ours 
we  have  not  acquired  the  habit  which  is  so  charming 
in  Bohemia  of  making  the  petite  visite  after  dinner.  It 
is  so  much  more  sympathetic  a  time  than  in  the  raw 
hours  of  the  afternoon.  ]\Iay  I  show  you  these  excellent 
photogravures  of  some  Kyoto  ware  1 ' ' 

This  speech  seemed  to  release  something  in  Olga,  and 
she  said  rapidly : 

"Sir  Philip,  I  can't  look  at  those  to-night.  I  have 
something  more  urgent  to  say  to  you.     I — " 

She  paused,  and  Sir  Philip  looked  at  her  and  slowly 
pulled  his  beard.     Then  he  said: 

"My  dear  lady,  I  do  not  want  you  to  qualify  your 
visit,  that  is  all.  For  the  rest,  you  know  that  I  am  ever 
tout  a  fait  a  votre  service/'  and  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  waved  his  hands  comprehensively.  Then  he 
smiled  kindly  and  said : 

"Tell  me  then,  dear  friend,  in  what  way  I  may  serve 
you?" 

Olga  looked  at  the  fire,  and  then  in  a  very  low  voice 
she  answered : 

"You  may  make  me  your  wife." 

There  was  a  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  the 
fountain  playing  in  the  adjoining  courtyard.  Olga 
continued  gazing  at  the  fire.  She  knew  that  his  eyes 
were  fixed  on  her  and  he  was  leaning  forward  as  though 
unable  to  grasp  the  full  significance  of  her  statement. 
He  started  as  though  about  to  spring  upon  her,  and 
then  held  himself  back.     He  was  trembling,  but  at  last 


THE  SANCTUARY  OF  TORCELAIN       333 

he  said,   in  a  voice  that  seemed  almost  charged  with 
tears : 

"Olga!  is  this  true?"  He  stretched  out  and  took  her 
hand.  She  gave  it,  and  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks. 
Then  she  broke  out  and  spoke  in  rapid,  disjointed  sen- 
tences. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,  Sir  Philip.  You  must 
think  I  'm  shameless.  You  have  asked  me,  and  I  have 
come  to  you." 

"My  dear  .  .  .  my  dear,"  he  broke  in. 

"No,  no,"  she  cried  excitedly.  "We  must  understand 
each  other  first.  You  have  asked  me  to  be  your  wife, 
and  I — accept.  I  will  be  your  wife.  I  will — fulfil  my 
part  of  the  contract.  You  understand?  In  every  way 
I  will  be  your  wife.  But  you  know,  you  must  know,  it  's 
no  question  of  love  with  me.  I  like  you  very  much,  you 
have  been  very  kind,  but  I  accept  you  because  I  'm  in 
great  difficulty.  I  'm  thinking  more  of  the  boys  than  of 
myself.  You  will  know  what  I  mean.  I  mustn't  be 
selfish,  must  I  ?  .  .  .  Will  you  accept  me  on  these  terms  ? 
I  cannot  do  more.  I  cannot  love  you,  but  I  will  be  your 
wife,  I  will  be  loyal  to  you.  ...  It  seems  dreadful  to 
come  to  you  like  this.     I  am  ashamed." 

He  gripped  her  hands  as  though  in  a  vise,  and  said 
earnestly : 

"Olga,  I  understand  ...  I  understand,  and  I  accept 
you.     I  will  try  and  make  you  love  me — " 

She  struggled  in  his  hands,  and  said : 

"Only,  I  want  to  make  stipulations.  Please  forgive 
me  ...  I  think  you  will  understand.  I  don't  want  any 
honeymoon  .  .  .  nothing  like  that.  Just  to  go  on.  I 
will  come  to  you  here,  you  see?     I  want  to  go  on  work- 


334  OLGA  BARDEL 

ing,  just  doing  things  all  the  time.  I  will  be  your  wife, 
only  I  'm  worried,  do  you  understand  ?  I  don 't  want  to 
stop  and  think  about  things  a  lot.  Perhaps  one  day  we 
can  travel,  only  not  yet.  I  want  to  stop  here  and  just 
go  on.  Perhaps  we  can  send  the  boys  to  school,  and 
then  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dear  friend,  I  feel  I  'm  being  mean 
to  you,  but — " 

He  pulled  her  to  him  and  cried  hoarsely : 

"I  understand  ...  I  understand." 

She  allowed  him  to  kiss  her  on  the  lips  and  she  closed 
her  eyes.  Then  she  clutched  the  lapels  of  his  coat  and 
said: 

"Oh,  may  I  go  now?  Go  away  for  a  few  days  .  .  . 
Then  I  will  come  back.  "We  will  perhaps  be  married  in 
a  registry  office,  and  then  go  on  just  as  though — as 
though  we  had  been  married  a  long  time,  as  though  it 
were  quite  a  normal  thing  ..." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   FURTIVE   LOVERS 

THE  wife  of  Cemray,  the  Academician,  was  giv- 
ing a  reception  in  honor  of  the  visit  of  the 
famous  French  sculptor,  Anton  Vinas.  The 
salons  were  crowded  with  luminaries  from  the  artistic, 
social,  and  diplomatic  world.  Anton  Vinas,  a  heavy, 
sensual-looking  old  man  with  a  splendidly  rugged  head, 
was  standing  by  the  side  of  his  hosts,  and  shaking  hands 
with  the  guests  as  they  were  introduced  to  him.  Sir 
Philip  and  Lady  Ballater  arrived  rather  late,  and  the 
room  was  very  hot  and  crowded.  Olga  felt  the  pressure 
of  the  distinguished  Frenchman's  rather  plump  hand, 
and  she  was  conscious  of  his  approving  glance  that  wan- 
dered from  her  face  to  her  neck  and  shoulders.  During 
these  years  she  had  indeed  filled  out,  and  though  at  that 
time  only  thirty-seven,  she  was  beginning  to  develop  that 
quality  that  people  call  ''matronliness."  Neither  was 
this  quality  entirely  a  physical  one.  It  was  a  satisfac- 
tion to  her  among  the  many  acquaintances  she  met  at  the 
reception  to  talk  about  "her  boys,"  and  to  inform  thera 
that  Richard  was  leaving  Harrow  next  term  and  going 
up  to  Oxford,  and  that  Cedric  played  the  violin  "like 
an  angel."  And  yet  a  close  observer  would  have  de- 
scribed Lady  Ballater's  normal  expression  as  rather  that 
of  suppression  than  resignation.     Her  gray  eyes  were 

335 


336  OLGA  BAEDEL 

calm  and  serene,  but  strange  lights  still  flashed  in  their 
unusual  depths.  The  social  life  appealed  to  her  even  less 
than  it  did  at  the  time  when  she  was  married  to  Harry 
Streatham,  although  she  was  at  that  time  an  undoubted 
social  success.  Women  adored  her,  and  men  made  love 
to  her  with  tireless  reiteration.  The  years  had  given 
her  a  certain  savoir  faire  and  an  ability  to  cope  with 
difficult  situations  with  sympathy  and  understanding. 
She  still  worked  at  the  piano,  but  she  only  played  in 
public  for  charity;  her  view  being  that  otherwise  she 
would  be  taking  the  fees  of  professional  musicians  Who 
had  to  earn  their  own  living.  All  her  sympathies  were 
with  the  people  who  worked,  and  she  had  started  a  society 
for  registering  and  helping  music  teachers.  A  young 
under-secretary  wrote  to  Emma  in  Scotland  (on  govern- 
ment official  notepaper),  and  described  her  at  that  time 
in  the  following  terms: 

"I  find  your  friend  altogether  adorable.  She  is  the 
most  beautiful  person  in  the  world.  She  moves  with  a 
curious  and  attractive  grace.  "When  she  looks  at  you 
you  feel  that  nothing  will  ever  matter  again,  and  then 
when  she  speaks  and  smiles  at  you,  you  want  it  to  matter 
ever  so  much.  Her  body  is  like  a  sounding-board  of  all 
the  human  emotions.  She  is  charged  with  vivid  intui- 
tions and  impulses.  I  have  never  met  any  one  so  un- 
self-conscious,  so  quick  to  suffer  and  enjoy.  Life  is  a 
tremendous  business  to  her,  torrential  and  overwhelm- 
ing. How  on  earth  did  she  happen  to  get  married  to 
that — Chinese  mandarin  ? ' ' 

By  which  it  may  be  observed  that  the  young  secre- 
tary's time  and  the  government  material  should  have 
been  employed  to  more  legitimate  ends. 


THE  FURTIVE  LOVERS  337 

They  wandered  through  the  rooms,  picking  little  scraps 
of  conversation  with  people  they  knew.  At  last  they 
worked  their  way  back  to  the  first  room.  It  was  very 
crowded,  and  she  could  not  see  the  people  near  the  door 
coming  in,  but  she  could  hear  the  voice  of  the  pompous 
butler  announcing  names  with  a  sonorous  dignity.  For 
a  moment  she  was  alone  and  unattended.  She  stood 
against  the  wall  and  began  to  feel  tired  of  the  proceed- 
ings. She  listened  drowsily  to  the  booming  voice  of  the 
butler.  Suddenly  she  started  and  almost  cried  out.  Her 
agitation  was  caused  solely  by  that  voice.  Could  it  be 
true  ?  Amidst  the  drone  of  many  names  it  had  suddenly 
announced : 

"Mr.  John  Braille." 

Three  large  people  in  front  of  her  were  drawling  in 
affected  voices  about  futurism.  Her  husband  had  his 
back  to  her,  and  was  laughing,  an  unusual  act  for  him. 
She  felt  a  sudden  irritation,  and  a  desire  to  push  all 
these  people  rudely  out  of  the  way  and  go  toward  the 
door.  It  couldn't  be  true!  It  couldn't  be  true!  It 
must  be  some  mistake.  The  voice  must  have  said 
some  other  name,  or  she  was  dreaming.  She  wished  she 
could  see.  How  abnormally  large  all  these  people 
seemed ! 

She  stood  there  some  moments — afraid,  and  trying  to 
analyze  her  fear.  If  it  were  he?  "What  then?  And 
why  was  he  alone?  She  tried  to  lull  her  agitated  feel- 
ings. Even  if  it  were  he,  it  would  only  be  natural. 
Perhaps  his  wife  had  a  headache — or  a  child  ?  He  would 
probably  almost  have  forgotten  her.  They  would  meet 
and  shake  hands  and  pass  on,  and  everything  would  be 
just  the  same  as  usual. 


338  OLGA  BARDEL 

"You  haven't  been  to  see  our  new  billiard-room  yet, 
Lady  Ballater." 

A  red-faced  man  with  a  head  shaped  like  a  horse  was 
grinning  at  her.  lie  was  the  director  of  an  insurance 
company  and  reputed  to  be  enormously  wealthy.  His 
wife  and  three  grown-up  daughters  were  at  the  recep- 
tion. She  recollected  having  overheard  some  one  say 
that  "he  was  a  cormorant  with  a  penchant  for  married 
women."  She  muttered  some  excuse,  and  pushed  her 
way  into  the  background  of  an  adjoining  room  that 
backed  on  to  a  conservatory.  She  still  felt  very  fright- 
ened. Her  eyes  restlessly  searched  the  room,  and  every 
one  seemed  intolerably  platitudinous.  Near  the  entrance 
to  the  conservatory  a  very  old  musical  critic  buttonholed 
her,  and  talked  interminably  about  opera.  He  insisted 
on  telling  her  the  plot  of  a  new  German  opera  he  had 
just  heard  in  Leipzig,  and  describing  the  character  of  the 
music  in  detail.  He  was  in  the  middle  of  the  second  act, 
and  she  remembered  him  saying: 

"And  then  the  fiddles  have  a  very  attractive  theme, 
that  is  taken  up  by  the  wood  wind.  It  is  perhaps  a  little 
suggestive  of  the  Meister singer,  and  equally  redun- 
dant." 

At  that  point  she  saw  Braille.  He  was  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  wall,  talking  to  a  little  man  with  curly 
hair  and  a  monocle.  His  face  was  thinner  than  of  yore 
but  tanned  by  the  sun,  and  the  hair  on  his  temples  was 
quite  gray.  He  looked  straight  at  her,  and  his  eyes 
glowed  with  the  quiet  light  of  understanding.  She  saw 
him  apologizing  to  the  little  man  and  pushing  his  way 
through  the  crowd  toward  her.  He  had  a  stormy  pass- 
age, buffeted  and  assailed  by  every  one  as  he  passed ;  but 


THE  FURTIVE  LOVERS  339 

he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  and  came  straight  on. 
As  he  put  out  his  hand  to  take  hers,  the  musical  critic 
was  saying : 

"The  overture  of  the  third  act  is  a  remarkable  piece 
of  scoring.  The  sense  of  climax  is  very  skilfully  man- 
aged, but  I  must  say  that  in  my  opinion — " 

Braille  was  holding  her  hand  and  looking  into  her 
eyes.  She  pulled  him  out  of  sound  of  the  musical  critic 's 
voice.  The  roar  of  conversation  was  so  great  that  it  was 
quite  possible  to  hold  an  intimate  conversation  in  the 
midst  of  it  without  the  probability  of  being  heard. 

He  said,  "I  came  to-night  because  some  one  told  me 
you  would  be  here." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  something  seemed  to  con- 
tract within  her,  and  for  the  moment  she  could  not  speak. 
She  smiled  at  him,  and  her  eyes  were  eloquent  with 
amazement  and  delight.     He  continued: 

*' Yes,  it  is  true.  I  know  what  you  are  thinking — I  am 
a  ghost!  I  died  ten  years  ago.  We  are  allowed  some- 
times to  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the  moon." 

"Have  you  come  back  to  finish  the  portrait?"  she 
asked. 

A  boyish  light  came  into  his  eyes  and  he  tilted  his 
head  in  a  manner  she  knew  so  well,  and  looked  at  her 
keenly  and  shook  his  head. 

"Ah!  It  was  cruel  of  me  to  remember,"  she  said, 
and  added,  "And  next  week  my  son  goes  to  Oxford  !" 

"Your  implication  is  a  perverse  one,"  he  answered. 
"I  have  not  come  back  to  finish  the  portrait  because  my 
original  reason  for  not  being  able  to  do  so  still  holds 
good." 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  shameless  significance, 


340  OLGA  BARDEL 

and  a  gentleman  with  shiny  cheeks  standing  by  the  door 
asked  a  friend  "who  the  hatchet-faced  man  flirting  with 
Lady  Ballater  was." 

Suddenly  they  changed  the  timbre  of  their  voices,  and 
she  whispered: 

' '  Tell  me  about  your  wife. ' ' 

Braille  started,  and  she  thought  his  lips  became  pale. 
He  looked  at  her  imploringly  and  answered : 

"I  've  never  had  a  wife." 

He  thought  for  the  moment  she  was  going  to  faint, 
and  he  said: 

' '  May  I  meet  you,  Olga  ?  May  I  meet  you  and  talk  to 
you?" 

The  crowd  seemed  suddenly  noisier  and  she  was  con- 
scious of  Sir  Philip  bringing  up  some  one  to  introduce 
to  her.     She  glanced  round  desperately  and  whispered : 

"Meet  me — by  the  flagstaff  on  Hampstead  Heath  to- 
morrow at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening." 

He  bowed  and  vanished.  She  impressed  Lord  Charles 
Wynsley,  to  whom  her  husband  introduced  her,  as  being 
"a  perfect  nincompoop.  One  of  these  damned  women 
who  say,  'Yes,  yes,'  and  'No,  no.'  Good  Lord!  why  the 
hell  did  Sir  Philip  marry  her  ?  Not  a  bad-looking  piece 
of  stuff,  in  a  way.  Would  be  pleasant  for  a  week-end 
trip  on  the  river,  but  marriage !  Pheugh !  Never  marry 
out  of  your  class,  dear  boy !" 

She  feigned  a  headache  after  ten  minutes'  conversa- 
tion with  Lord  Charles,  and  begged  her  husband  to  take 
her  home.  She  passed  a  turbulent  night,  rocking  with 
alternate  hopes  and  fears.  On  the  morrow  the  day  took 
on  the  nature  of  a  fantastic  dream.  It  was  a  gray  day 
in  April,  and  a  warm  wind  was  blowing  from  the  south- 


THE  FURTIVE  LOVERS  341 

west.  She  had  no  recollection  of  how  she  got  through 
the  hours  till  seven  o'clock;  mostly  by  practising  in  fits 
and  starts,  and  then  going  to  the  window  and  peering 
out. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  she  arrived  under  the  flag- 
staff. She  was  conscious  of  the  presence  of  furtive  lovers. 
People  strolled  about  in  couples  and  became  lost  on  the 
heath.  For  the  moment  she  regretted  the  place  of  the 
appointment;  it  seemed  sordid  and  unromantic. 

"But  after  all,"  she  thought,  "why  should  I  consider 
myself  different  from  the  others?" 

He  was  standing  there,  erect  and  solemn  like  an  In- 
dian sentinel.  She  was  conscious  of  him  before  she  had 
seen  him.  He  pressed  both  her  hands  and  then  walked 
a  little  way  without  speaking.  She  suddenly  gripped  his 
arm  and  said : 

"I  am  in  a  fantastic  mood,  my  friend.  .  ,  .  You  must 
humor  me.  I  told  Sir  Philip  I  was  going  out  to  dine 
with  a  girl  friend.     What  shall  we  do?" 

She  could  see  his  eyes  glow  in  the  dim  light,  and  she 
felt  the  pressure  of  his  hands. 

"Let  us  walk,"  he  said. 

They  went  down  into  a  hollow  and  up  again  and  passed 
by  some  fir-trees.  There  were  many  people  strolling 
about,  and  sitting  very  close  to  each  other  on  seats  and 
on  the  grass,  which  must  have  been  damp.  The  con- 
stant meeting  with  these  people  made  them  both  self- 
conscious,  and  they  laughed  about  it  uneasily  after  a 
while.  Suddenly,  as  they  were  going  round  the  bend  of 
a  sandy  hillock,  two  people  left  a  seat  that  was  almost 
hidden  against  a  fence. 

"Let  us  sit  here,"  said  Olga,  and  she  pulled  him  to- 


342  OLGA  BARDEL 

ward  the  seat.  ' '  You  must  remember  that  I  was  brought 
up  in  Canning  Town,"  she  added,  by  way  of  justifica- 
tion. 

They  sat  side  by  side.  Braille  prodding  the  sand  with 
his  stick.  He  seemed  unable  to  speak.  At  last  she 
laughed  and  put  her  arm  on  his  shoulder. 

"Come,"  she  said.  "I  have  been  so  unhappy,  so  deso- 
late .  .  .  Humor  my  one  fantastic  night ! ' ' 

"Ah!"  he  said  with  difficulty.  "What  must  you 
think  of  me?" 

She  could  see  the  drawn  look  on  his  face,  and  she 
whispered : 

"What  is  it?     Tell  me." 

"You  asked  about  my  wife."  He  looked  at  her,  and 
she  could  not  answer,  but  she  nodded  her  head,  and 
tried  to  convey  the  feeling  that  all  was  right  with  the 
world  if  only  he  would  tell  her. 

"It  would  not  be — you  if  you  did  not  look  at  me  like 
that,  with  forgiveness  in  your  eyes,  before  you  hear  me, ' ' 
he  said  hoarsely. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "the  only 
thing  the  world  has  taught  me  is  that  there  is  never 
anything  to  forgive.  Tell  me — your  experiences,  your 
desires,  if  you  like,  only  don't  talk  about  forgiveness. 
Let  me  be  more  to  you  than  that." 

Braille  started  and  seemed  almost  imperceptibly  to 
hold  himself  back ;  then  he  leant  forward  on  his  knees 
and  peering  at  the  ground,  he  said : 

"I  want  to  tell  you  .  .  .  everything  exactly  as  it  oc- 
curred to  me.  My  father  was  a  Puritan.  He  brought 
me  up  on  a  sort  of  Spartan  system.  I  owe  to  him  my 
strength  and  vigor  of  body  and,  I  suppose,  my  moral 


THE  FURTIVE  LOVERS  343 

bias.  lie  did  not  believe  in  beauty;  at  least,  not  as  an 
integral  part  of  one.  The  only  beauty  he  believed  in  was 
the  beauty  of  the  sea  at  night  when  the  wind  raged  .  .  . 
I  believed  in  that  too ;  I  brought  it  to  bear  on  my  work. 
I  sought  truth  in  the  most  analytical  manner,  and  tried 
to  expose  hypocrisies.  I  believed  that  the  only  issues 
worth  fighting  for  were  moral  issues.  I  believed  that  one 
could  lead  one's  life,  if  not  divorced  from  all  beauty, 
at  least  not  in  any  way  dependent  upon  it.  One  could 
take  it  in  the  way  that  one  takes  marmalade  for  break- 
fast. ...  It  is  a  curious  thing  that  my  meeting  with 
you  was  not  the  cause  of  the  sort  of  psychological  up- 
heaval that  I  went  through  at  that  time — you  were  rather 
the  apotheosis  of  certain  changes  that  had  been  started 
by  something  else.  Do  you  know  what  it  was  that  started 
them  ? — The  Russian  ballet  at  Covent  Garden !  I  went 
in  there  one  night  quite  casually,  and  before  I  came  away 
I  knew  that  life  would  never  be  the  same  to  me  again. 
I  had  never  seen  beauty  expressed  with  such  meaning 
and  poignance.  It  was  incredibly  beautiful,  and  it  went 
right  through  me.  And  it  was  neither  moral  nor  un- 
moral, but  it  spoke  to  me  of  things  greater  than  morality, 
the  stuff  that  the  fibers  of  life  are  made  from.  You 
asked  me  my  desires.  I  tell  you,  my  desire  became  at 
that  time  to  have  my  life  colored  by  beauty.  And  then 
you  came." 

Braille  sighed,  but  he  did  not  look  at  her,  and  he 
still  prodded  the  ground  with  his  stick. 

"You  were  the  most  beautiful  thing  I  had  ever  seen. 
You  became  to  me  the  personification  of  the  beauty  of 
my  dreams.  Your  image  was  always  before  me.  Your 
eyes  were  between  me  and  every  action.     I  could  not 


344  OLGA  BARDEL 

work.  I  could  not  think  coherently.  And  I  was  afraid. 
It  was  not  only  that  you  were  a  married  woman ;  it  was 
something  more  than  that.  I  desired  you  terribly.  It 
was  true  that  it  was  not  only  your  body  I  desired,  but 
I  did  desire  your  body.  I  was  afraid  of  myself.  If 
beauty  were  illusion !  I  went  out  alone  into  the  country 
and  wrestled  with  this  thing.  I  thought  of  my  father. 
I  felt  like  a  Japanese — what  are  those  chaps  called? — 
Samurai  communing  with  the  spirit  of  his  ancestors. 
And  at  that  hour  my  father  spoke  with  no  uncertain 
voice.  I  knew  it  was  no  good.  I  went  back  to  the  studio 
in  Langham  Place.  There  hung  your  unfinished  por- 
trait. This  was  going  to  be  no  chilling  assertion  of  ab- 
stract truth.  This  was  no  'Braille.'  There  was  already 
about  it  something  that  frightened  me.  .  .  .  You  came 
again.  And  then — you  remember  the  morning?  Ah, 
God !  I  felt  I  was  writing  you  that  note  with  my  own 
blood.  I  dashed  away  from  you  like  a  frightened  ani- 
mal, as  so  indeed  I  was.  I  went  to  Rome  and  Taormina, 
but  I  could  not  work.  ...  It  was  in  Biskra,  away  out 
there  in  the  desert,  that  the  'other  thing'  happened.  I 
want  to  tell  you  about  this,  dear,  all  just  exactly  as  it 
came  about." 

Olga  leant  forward,  watching  him  intently  through 
her  half-closed  eyes. 

' '  I  stayed  out  there  in  a  small  French  hotel  that  had  a 
roof  garden  from  which  one  could  see  miles  across  the 
desert.  I  was  very  lonely  there,  and  I  could  not  work. 
The  roof  garden  was  my  only  joy.  I  used  to  sit  there  at 
night  and  watch  the  stars  above  the  desert  and  breathe 
the  warm  air.  It  was  amazingly  beautiful.  There  were 
not  more  than  half-a-dozen  people  in  the  hotel  at  that 


THE  FURTIVE  LOVERS  345 

time.  But  there  was  a  Spanish  woman — at  least,  she 
was  half  Spanish  and  lialf  French,  She  was  tall  and 
dark  and  had  splendid  e}es.  I  did  not  notice  her  at  iirst. 
I  noticed  no  one.  I  wanted  to  be  alone,  utterly  alone  in 
this  ocean  of  sand.  But  I  noticed  after  a  time  that  she 
was  always  watching  me  and  getting  in  my  way.  She 
tried  to  make  conversation,  and  I  believe  I  was  rude  to 
her.  I  really  don't  know.  I  was  very  distracted,  and 
the  sight  of  her  irritated  me.  Then  one  night  I  was 
sitting  on  the  roof.  It  was  a  wonderful  night  and  the 
moon  was  up.  The  air  was  laden  with  the  perfume  of 
the  oleanders.  Some  Arabs  were  playing  their  tom- 
toms in  the  distance.  It  occurred  to  me  that  if  I  were 
in  search  of  beauty  I  had  at  least  discovered  its  setting. 
But  my  heart  was  aching  for  its  central  episode.  Sud- 
denly the  girl  came  on  to  the  roof.  She  had  on  a  white 
frock.  She  passed  close  by  me,  and  I  saw  her  dark  eyes 
looking  at  me  furtively.  She  left  a  trail  of  some  strange 
scent,  and  passed  behind  a  clump  of  palms.  I  knew  that 
she  was  beautiful,  beautiful  in  a  madly  impersonal  way, 
like  the  desert  or  the  mango  trees.  She  fitted  in  to  the 
great  scheme  of  things.  I  sat  there  a  long  time  think- 
ing. Beauty !  .  .  .  The  strange  Arab  music  penetrated 
me.  A  procession  of  heavily  laden  camels  came  hurry- 
ing across  the  desert.  Something  kept  saying  to  me, 
'The  stars  are  fixed.  For  you — life  and  youth  are  slip- 
ping away.'  On  the  morrow  I  felt  more  exhausted  and 
sad.  I  wandered  about  and  tried  to  paint.  I  passed  the 
Spanish  woman  twice  and  on  the  second  occasion  I  smiled 
at  her.  Three  days  and  nights  passed  in  this  way.  We 
said  'Good  morning'  and  'good  night,'  but  nothing  more. 
But  I  looked  at  her  and  gradually  she  moved  me  like  a 


346  OLGA  BARDEL 

narcotic.  On  the  third  night  there  was  no  moon,  but 
the  air  was  warmer.  I  went  up  to  the  roof  garden  in  a 
peculiar  fever  of  excitement,  and  waited.  It  was  very 
dark.  I  sat  there  a  long  time.  In  the  distance  a 
woman  was  singing  some  melancholy  dirge.  Then  sud- 
denly I  saw  the  white  dress  appear  and  move  slowly  in 
my  direction,  pass  by,  and  in  the  direction  of  the  palms, 
leaving  its  trail  of  scent.  I  got  up  and  followed  her, 
and  she  turned.  In  the  darkness  I  could  just  see  her  lazy 
eyes.  We  did  not  speak,  not  a  word.  I  took  her  in  my 
arms  and  kissed  her  silently  on  the  lips.  We  went  into 
the  arbor  enclosed  by  the  palms  .  .  . 

' '  I  hired  a  caravan  the  next  day,  and  we  went  away  to- 
gether into  the  desert,  attended  by  two  Arabs.  We  lived 
there  for  three  weeks.  Ah,  God !  the  desolation  of  those 
days  and  nights!  Except  for  the  mad  hours  when  I 
clutched  her  in  my  arms  I  was  more  lonely  than  ever. 
The  beauty  that  I  sought  was  like  a  mirage  that  laughed 
at  me  across  the  sands.  One  cannot  transubstantiate 
the  central  stuff  of  life.  I  felt  like  an  outcast,  a  social 
leper.  And  always  your  eyes  were  before  me,  your  eyes 
and  the  eyes  of  my  father.  But  what  could  I  do  ?  I  could 
not  desert  the  woman  after  I  had  committed  myself.  She 
rallied  me  on  my  melancholy  moods,  and  we  went  on  to 
Algiers.  From  there  we  went  to  Nice  and  Bordighera, 
and  then  to  Paris,  and  came  over  and  spent  a  week  in 
London.  I  fell  into  a  state  of  moral  apathy  and  just 
followed  the  woman  about,  doing  as  she  bid  me.  For 
some  reason  we  started  out  for  India,  but  in  Paris  my 
immediate  troubles  were  solved  for  me,  for  she  left  me  to 
go  and  live  with  the  son  of  a  French  deputy.  She  was 
quite  frank  about  it.     She  said  I  had  attracted  her  at 


THE  FURTIVE  LOVERS  347 

first,  but  she  had  learnt  to  detest  me.     We  parted  quite 
good  friends.  .  .  . 

"You  may  be  surprised  to  know  what  I  did  next.  I 
went  to  a  town  where  I  should  not  be  likely  to  be  known. 
I  went  to  Lyons,  and  I  lived  in  the  poorest  quarter  of  the 
town.  I  had  suffered  bitterly,  and  I  felt  an  overwhelm- 
ing desire  to  live  among  others  who  suffered.  I  gave  up 
painting  and  I  worked  amongst  the  poorest  of  the  poor. 
I  lived  in  one  room  and  did  odd  jobs  for  people.  I  found 
in  the  meanness  and  wretchedness  of  those  streets  some- 
thing ennobling,  and  in  the  lives  of  the  downtrodden 
something  inspiring.  I  lived  there  nearly  a  year,  and 
gradually  my  virility  returned  to  me.  My  conception  of 
beauty  became  mellowed.  I  found  the  salvation  of  suf- 
fering ..." 

Olga  leaned  forward  and  touched  his  arm,  and  her 
eyes  dilated. 

"You  have  found  that  too!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
They  gazed  at  each  other  for  some  time,  and  then  sat 
apart,  looking  up  at  the  sky.     At  last  she  said : 
"Why  did  you  go  to  the  reception  to  see  me?" 
"Partly  caprice,"  he  answered;  "but  I  wanted  one 
day  to  tell  you  everything." 

"Where  were  you  at  the  time  of  my  divorce?" 
"At  Algiers.     I  did  not  hear  about  it  till  you  were 
married  to  Ballater." 

"And  when  you  came  to  London,  I  missed  you  at  the 
gallery  by  a  few  hours." 

They  sat  silent;  then  Olga  said  bitterly: 
"The  gods  have  not  been  very  kind  to  you  and  me." 
There  was  another  pause,  during  which  she  feasted  her 
eyes  on  his  drawn  face.     Suddenly  she  stood  up  in  front 


348  OLGA  BARDEL 

of  him  and  held  out  both  her  hands.  He  took  them,  and 
rose  also.     She  went  close  up  to  him  and  spoke  quickly : 

"Listen,  dear.  I  too  am  lonely.  I  don't  Tcnow  about 
all  these  things — morality  and  so  on.  I  only  know  that 
in  my  life  I  have  had  the  desire  to  do  good,  to  help  those 
that  suffer,  to  be  kind.  I  want  to  be  of  some  service, 
but  for  the  rest,  I  know  nothing.  I  cannot  understand 
that  the  world  should  talk  of  failure  and  success  when 
there  should  only  be  'understanding.'  I  had  my  wan- 
der-dream of  passion,  like  you  had.  I  too  suffered  bit- 
terly. I  too  looked  between  the  eyes  of  the  poor  and 
downcast." 

Her  face  was  very  close  to  his  and  her  cheeks  were 
wet  with  tears.     Suddenly  she  cried  out : 

"I  cannot  understand.  I  am  sure  of  nothing.  But  I 
will  tell  you  one  thing. ' ' 

''What  is  it?"  he  said  hoarsely. 

* '  If  you  would  take  me,  I  would  come  with  you  now — 
anywhere,  to  the  ends  of  the  earth ! ' ' 

Braille  started  and  his  lips  trembled. 

"Olga!"  he  gasped.     "I  didn't  come  to  tempt  you." 

"But  I  want  you  to  tempt  me.  It  is  the  only  thing  I 
understand,  the  only  thing  I  am  sure  of — my  love!  I 
have  been  twice  a  wife,  but  I  would  come  and  be  your 
mistress.  Do  you  understand  what  I  'm  saying?  I  say 
it  's  the  only  thing  I  'm  sure  of.  I  possess  you  already, 
I  wear  you  in  my  heart  day  and  night.  What  is  the  dif- 
ference between  that  and  what  I  ask?  I  care  for  noth- 
ing else.  I  gave  my  word  of  honor  I  would  be  loyal  to 
my  husband,  but  I  have  already  broken  that  vow  in  my 
heart.  I  would  sacrifice  my  honor  for  you,  give  you 
everything  I  possess,  die  for  you !     Oh,  my  dear,  I  know 


THE  FURTIVE  LOVERS  340 

you  understand  me,  and  that  is  more  to  me  than  all  the 
world. ' ' 

They  stood  there  held  fast  by  the  vibrant  communion 
of  their  eyes.  Suddenly  he  kissed  her  damp  cheek,  and 
then  his  arms  were  around  her,  and  their  lips  met.  She 
gave  a  little  cry  like  a  wounded  animal,  and  hung  limply 
in  his  arras,  with  her  eyes  closed.  He  kissed  her  again 
and  again.     A  few  paces  away  he  heard  people  moving. 

' '  Good  God  ! "  he  muttered.     ' '  What  are  we  doing ! ' ' 

"We  're  amidst  the  furtive  lovers,"  she  whispered,  and 
she  laughed  weakly.  He  thought  she  was  going  to  faint, 
and  he  helped  her  to  a  seat.     Presently  she  said : 

"This  is  madness!     Oh,  my  dear,  forgive  me." 

And  Braille  said : 

"No,  you  are  right.  I  should  detest  that  more  than 
anything — to  be  furtive.  To  carry  on  secret  assigna- 
tions, to  always  feel  ashamed.  You  are  right.  Every- 
thing vital  has  already  happened  between  us.  Any  other 
action  would  be  a  sham.  ]\Iy  dear,  I  too  wear  you  in 
my  heart,  and  I  shall  claim  you." 

He  kissed  her  again,  and  they  moved  away  from  the 
seat.  She  noticed  that  his  coat  was  wet.  And  indeed  a 
fine  rain  had  been  falling  for  nearly  an  hour.  They 
stumbled  across  the  heath  in  silence,  he  holding  her 
arm. 

"I  believe  I  'm  very  hungry,"  she  said  suddenly.  He 
laughed  gaily,  and  looked  at  his  watch  by  the  light  of  a 
match.  It  was  nine  o'clock.  They  went  to  an  hotel  on 
the  top  of  the  heath,  and  caused  considerable  surprise 
by  asking  if  it  were  possible  to  have  dinner.  The  man- 
agement was  shocked  and  annoyed  at  this  un-English 
request.     After  a  lot  of  persuasion,  however,  they  con- 


350  OLGA  BARDEL 

sented  to  give  them  some  cold  roast  beef  and  pickles, 
with  bread  and  cheese,  in  the  coffee-room.  They  had 
the  coffee-room  to  themselves,  and  they  ate  their  beef 
and  cheese,  tremulously  observant  of  each  other.  When 
the  meal  was  finished,  he  said : 

' '  When  will  you  come  to  me  ? " 

She  thought  for  a  moment,  and  answered : 

* '  To-morrow. ' ' 

She  blushed  and  pushed  her  hair  back  with  a  rapid 
little  motion  of  the  back  of  the  hand,  and  rose  quickly. 
As  they  walked  along  the  Spaniards  Road,  a  regiment  of 
boys  passed  with  a  drum-and-fife  band.  They  were  sing- 
ing and  waving  their  hats.  Before  they  had  passed  Olga 
stopped  suddenly  and  put  her  hand  to  her  heart.  Braille 
held  her  firmly  and  said: 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

She  laughed  uneasily,  and  answered : 

' '  Oh,  it  's  nothing !  How  silly  of  me !  Only — some 
of  those  boys  reminded  me  of  my  Richard. ' ' 

The  drum-and-fife  band  blared  its  gay  and  catching 
melody  and  the  boys  cheered  as  they  passed  the  White- 
stone  pond.  When  the  music  had  almost  died  away  in 
the  distance,  Olga  said: 

' '  Will  you  put  me  into  a  cab,  dear  ? ' ' 

They  had  to  walk  a  little  further  before  they  found 
one,  and  they  were  both  strangely  silent.  When  the 
cab  was  discovered  and  she  had  been  installed.  Braille 
stood  by  the  door  and  pressed  her  hand : 

"To-morrow,  then,  at  my  rooms,  at  three  o'clock." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  gasped  in  the  faintest  whisper.  "To- 
morrow ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  XI 

TETB  LETTER 

BRAILLE  stood  for  a  long  time  at  the  spot  where 
the  cab  had  departed.  He  watched  its  scarlet 
rear-light  flicker  down  the  hill,  and  disappear. 

"She  has  gone,"  he  thought.  "It  is  all  over — the 
dream  has  vanished." 

He  walked  a  little  way  along  the  road  and  then  dived 
down  into  the  bracken.  He  walked  rapidly  through  the 
rain,  his  jaw  set  with  a  grim  determination.  He  tried 
to  find  the  seat  where  they  had  sat  before  supper;  but 
he  missed  it,  and  wandered  on  through  the  dark.  "To- 
morrow morning,"  he  thought,  "there  will  be  a  letter 
from  her.  She  will  have  had  time  to  see  things 
clearer  ...  It  will  be  all  over." 

It  was  getting  late,  and  the  furtive  lovers  had  de- 
parted. He  seemed  to  be  alone  on  the  heath.  It  was 
very  cold.  He  looked  toward  the  west  where  the  drum- 
and-fife  band  had  passed. 

"The  passing  of  youth!"  he  suddenly  exclaimed  to 
himself,  and  laughed  bitterly.  And  then  he  thought, 
"If  I  did  not  know  that  she  would  write  to-night,  I 
should  write  myself.  But  she  shall  have  the  credit  of— 
'seeing  clear'!  It  is  all  I  have  to  give  her."  He  strode 
on  through  the  damp  grass. 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  he  let  himself 

351 


352  OLGA  BARDEL 

in  at  his  rooms  in  Gyves  Court.  He  was  wet  through. 
He  had  a  bath  and  went  to  bed.  But  he  did  not  sleep. 
He  kept  on  visualizing  the  letter  that  would  arrive  at 
eight  o'clock.  At  seven  his  man  called  him  and  brought 
a  cup  of  tea.  He  drank  it,  and  put  on  a  dressing-gown, 
and  sat  up  in  bed  waiting  for  the  letter.  It  seemed  an 
interminable  time  till  the  post  came.  At  last  he  heard 
the  click  of  the  box  and  the  sharp  rat-tat.  He  nearly 
leapt  out  of  bed  and  rushed  for  it,  but  some  ingrained 
instinct  kept  him  fixed  to  the  bed.  He  smiled  faintly 
when  he  heard  the  slow  ponderous  steps  of  Robeson  com- 
ing along  the  passage  to  take  the  letter  out  of  the  box. 

' '  The  fool ! "  he  thought.     "  If  he  only  knew ! ' ' 

Listening  to  the  languid  movements  of  Robeson  taking 
the  letters  out  of  the  box,  and  going  slowly  to  the  dining- 
room  to  fetch  a  silver  tray,  the  story  flashed  through  his 
mind  of  the  man  who  was  condemned  to  death,  but  the 
date  and  hour  of  his  death  were  kept  from  him.  He 
suffered  unspeakable  agonies  of  terror  till  suddenly  one 
day,  in  a  flash,  he  realized  that  after  all  his  fate  was  only 
that  of  the  rest  of  humanity ! 

"After  all,"  thought  Braille,  "it  will  make  no  dif- 
ference.    I  should  have  written  if  she  hadn't." 

Robeson  tapped  on  the  door  with  well-modulated  re- 
straint. He  entered,  and  walked  slowly  towards  the  bed, 
holding  out  the  tray.  Braille's  eyes  were  glued  on  the 
letter.  There  it  was;  the  top  one!  He  took  it  in  his 
hand,  and  Robeson  said  in  his  pensive  voice : 

"Which  suit  will  you  wear  to-day,  sir?  I  'm  afraid 
you  were  caught  in  the  rain  last  night." 

Braille  looked  at  him  calmly  and  said,  "My  blue  one, 
Robeson. ' ' 


THE  LETTER  3o3 

Robeson  went  with  incredible  deliberation  to  the  ward- 
robe, lie  sighed,  and  took  down  the  suit  from  its 
stretcher.  He  spread  it  out  with  a  lingering  affection. 
Then  he  returned  to  the  wardrobe,  and  routed  with  a  su- 
perb dignity  among  the  drawers  for  shirt,  pants,  and  col- 
lar. He  took  all  these  things  and  placed  each  one  sepa- 
rately and  lovingly  in  a  convenient  place  for  Braille  to 
get  at.  And  at  the  same  time,  he  told  Braille  of  a 
calamity  that  had  happened  to  the  lift-boy's  mother.  It 
was  an  involved  and  unpleasant  story,  an  affair  of  de- 
ception and  alcoholic  excess.  Braille  looked  at  him  with- 
out listening.  He  was  almost  mesmerized  by  the  man's 
amazing  deliberation.  He  held  the  letter  in  his  hand, 
and  kept  turning  it  over.  "When  Robeson  had  finished 
the  story,  Braille  said : 

"After  all,  Robeson,  it  won't  make  any  difference,  will 
it?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?"  exclaimed  the  faithful  at- 
tendant. 

Braille  looked  at  the  letter  and  sighed.  How  ador- 
ably childish  her  writing  was !  large  and  straggling,  and 
full  of  character.     He  said  peremptorily: 

"All  right,  Robeson,  I  can  manage." 

"Very  good,  sir!" 

He  was  alone  in  the  room,  with  the  sheets  of  the  letter 
trembling  in  his  hand.  He  touched  the  sacred  document 
with  his  lips,  and  read : 

Oh,  my  dear,  if  I  had  been  taught  to  pray  I  would  pray  to- 
night that  I  might  have  the  power  to  tell  you  what  is  in  my 
heart.  I  somehow  feel  that  you  will  expect  this  letter,  that  you 
will  know  all  the  time  what  I  am  going  to  say,  as  I  believe  I  know 
what  you  are  feeling.     Oh,  it  was  madness  this  dream  of  ours! 


354  OLGA  BARDEL 

I  am  a  wanton,  a  tliousand  times  worse  than  the  Spanish  woman 
at  Biskra.  I  shall  always  hate  myself  that  I  tempted  you.  Noth- 
ing can  alter  that!  I  tempted  you!  I  should  have  destroyed 
you !  I  know  now  that  God  never  meant  us  to  be  lovers.  We  are 
more  like  two  ships  tossed  on  the  great  sea,  and  making  for  the 
same  port.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  want  always  to  hold  that  memory  of 
you  as  I  saw  you  last  night  when  you  told  me  your  story.  I 
want  to  see  those  dear  eyes  of  yours,  and  all  that  fine-drawn  qual- 
ity of  your  face  that  is  just — you.  I  want  to  believe  in  you 
always  as  the  one  thing  that  has  given  life  meaning  to  me.  I 
want  to  think  of  you,  strong,  splendid,  and  triumphant.  It  has 
been  a  struggle  of  perversity;  let  us  win  out  now  to  the  end.  If 
I  may  know  that  you  are  just  there,  somewhere  in  some  great 
city,  sometimes  thinking  of  me,  and  always  alive  to  suffering, 
expressing  yourself,  and  fighting  for  what  you  represent — I  some- 
how believe  I  can — go  on.  I  did  not  know  that  love  could  reveal 
so  much.  All  these  people  who  have  wandered  through  my  life — I 
have  seen  them  pass  like  a  pageant — but  you — I  have  found  you 
in  my  heart  revealing  a  world  of  infinite  meaning.  You  have 
taught  me  to  love — not  merely  you  but  all  that  you  are.  You 
have  made  me  love  myself,  and  the  barbs  and  arrows  that  pierce 
me  when  I  banish  you.  It  is  the  supremest  sacrifice  that  we  can 
make,  dear,  isn't  it?  I  feel  strong  to-night,  and  I  think  I  can  do 
this  thing,  but  only  if  I  may  always  hold  the  image  of  you  in  my 
heart  when  you  said,  "Olga,  I  did  not  come  here  to  tempt  you." 
Let  us  go  on  then,  and  perhaps  one  day,  when  we  reach  the  great 
port,  we  may  find  each  other  side  by  side. 

Olga. 

Braille  turned  the  letter  over  in  his  hand,  and  read 
it  again  and  again.  Then  he  continued  staring  at  it,  and 
turning  it  over  without  reading.  At  last  he  gripped  it 
firmly  but  tenderly  in  his  right  hand,  and  buried  his 
face  in  the  pillow. 

The  marble  room  seemed  strangely  silent.  The  mur- 
mur of  the  fountain  died  away  to  a  whisper.     She  sat 


THE  LETTER  355 

there  in  the  small  Japanese  recess,  with  some  work  upon 
her  lap,  listening.  By  her  side  was  a  large  inlaid  ma- 
hogany bird-cage  with  gilt  wires.  In  the  cage  was  a 
black  Central-American  macaw.  He  sat  on  his  perch, 
with  his  small  head  hunched  between  his  shoulders,  and 
his  little  dark  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her.  He  too  seemed 
to  be  listening  intently.  Facing  her  was  a  mirror  set 
in  an  ebony  frame.  It  was  set  at  such  an  angle  that  by 
leaning  forward  she  could  just  see  the  reflection  of  her 
husband's  profile  behind  the  portiere.  He  had  on  his 
thick  pince-nez,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  in  an  ice-cold  con- 
templation of  three  valuable  Chinese  pots  upon  the  table 
in  front  of  him.  They  had  arrived  that  morning.  His 
hands  were  resting  on  one  of  them,  feeling  the  glaze. 
She  did  not  move.  She  knew  that  it  was  an  hour  when 
he  did  not  like  to  be  disturbed.  She  sometimes  wondered 
whether  his  china  was  not  more  to  him  than — all  the 
world.  He  seemed  at  times  so  much  a  part  of  it.  And 
of  late  these  periods  of  silence  that  had  always  been 
characteristic  of  him  had  become  more  pronounced  and 
more  prolonged.  He  would  sit  immobile  by  the  hour, 
surrounded  by  the  priceless  pottery,  appearing  less  like 
a  man  than  like  a  frigid  statement  of  humanity,  a  thing 
fixed  and  finished.  On  this  afternoon  his  face  had 
flushed  at  the  arrival  of  the  pots.  He  had  seemed  for 
the  moment  elated  and  gay.  He  had  stroked  them,  and 
then  carried  them  away  to  his'  lair  like  a  jungle-cat. 
She  remembered  him  saying,  "The  Chinese,  my  dear,  are 
creators,  the  Japanese — imitators."  He  had  looked  at 
them  long  and  earnestly,  and  then  he  had  gradually 
settled  down  to  his  turgid  contemplation.  She  knew  by 
experience  that  to  disturb  him  at  such  times  was  both 


356  OLGA  BARDEL 

dangerous  and  inexpedient.  He  would  be  strangely 
sulky  and  morose,  and  would  look  at  her  in  a  way  that 
terrified  her.  His  eyes  would  appear  slightly  blood- 
shot, and  he  would  hardly  seem  to  know  her. 

They  had  not  been  married  three  months  before  she 
discovered  his  secret.  The  flushed  cheeks,  and  the  bright 
eyes,  the  clear  and  brilliant  conversation,  and  then  the 
sudden  mood  of  utter  depression  and  apathy.  She  could 
not  understand  this  till  one  day  when  he  retired  to  his 
dressing-room,  and  slept  from  lunch-time  till  nearly  half- 
past  six,  and  she  had  become  alarmed.  She  had  gone  in, 
and  by  the  side  of  the  couch  she  had  found  a  little  phial, 
and  a  glass  with  a  strangely  sweet  and  penetrating  odor. 

The  affair  had  terrified  her,  and  she  had  waited  till  he 
was  normal.  She  was  not  the  woman  to  leave  a  thing 
like  that  alone.  She  had  gone  down  on  her  knees  to  him 
and  begged  him  to  think  of  her.  She  had  conjured  every 
form  of  persuasion  she  could  contrive  to  save  him.  It 
had  been  terrible.  Even  now  she  could  see  the  ghastly, 
hunted  look  on  his  face,  and  hear  the  weak  laugh.  He 
had  tried  to  be  candid  with  her,  was  a  man  for  a  few 
moments.  He  had  suddenly  clutched  her  hands,  and 
said,  "Ah,  God!  if  I  had  met  you  fifteen  years  ago!" 

Fifteen  years !  Then  she  too  felt  self-conscious  and 
ashamed.  He  made  her  feel  that  she  had  been  loyal  to 
nothing,  not  even  an  idea.  She  had  helped  no  one,  saved 
no  one,  been  no  one's  companion.  She  had  compromised 
with  opportunity,  followed  her  impulses,  and  lived  for 
herself.  Inside  she  had  always  yearned  for  something 
finer  and  greater,  some  chance  of  expressing  what  was 
best  in  herself,  but  always  she  seemed  the  slave  of  com- 
promise, unable  to  cope  with  the  unpitying  conditions 


THE  LETTER  357 

that  social  life  imposed  on  her.  Fifteen  years !  This 
man,  who  was  now  her  husband,  must  have  had  similar 
experiences.  lie  was  cleverer  than  she,  more  intellectual, 
and  yet  he  found  life  insupportable,  so  insupportable  that 
he  found  escape  in  what  the  Easterners  had  called  "the 
little  window  of  the  night."  He  was  destroying  him- 
self, and  she  could  not  save  him.  He  had  said,  "If  I  had 
met  you  fifteen  years  ago ! ' ' 

But  she  knew  that  if  she  had  met  him  fifteen  vears 
ago,  she  would  not  have  saved  him.  She  did  not  love 
him,  and  she  could  never  have  loved  him.  Under  the 
stress  of  various  emotions,  and  a  very  definite  social 
difficulty,  she  had  compromised  again  wath  herself.  She 
had  said,  "It  is  finished."  He  had  deceived  her  by  not 
telling  her  about  the  drugs.  And  she  had  deceived  him 
by  pretending  to  herself  that  "it  was  finished,"  when 
she  knew  in  her  heart  of  hearts  that  she  was  yearning 
for  the  love  of  another  man.  They  had  drifted  together 
like  two  straws  in  the  maelstrom  of  social  life,  having 
only  in  common  a  certain  kindred  appreciation  of 
esthetic  values;  admiring  in  each  other  the  other's  sen- 
sibilities. He  was  always  kind  to  her,  considerate,  and 
courteous — except  in  the  lapses  when  he  did  not  remem- 
ber his  own  behavior,  and  even  then  he  was  never  brusk ; 
only  sullen  and  obtuse  .  .  . 

The  macaw  shuffied  a  little  nearer  to  her  on  his  perch, 
and  turned  his  dark  eyes  obliquely  toward  her. 

"What  is  it,  Jacky?"  she  said  quietly.  "What  is 
the  matter?" 

And  so  it  would  go  on.  The  day  would  pass,  and 
other  days;  and  then  she  would  become  old.  She  did 
not  care  to  think  of  this,  and  she  fumbled  with  a  letter 


358  OLGA  BARDEL 

on  the  work-table.  It  was  from  Richard  at  Oxford.  It 
enclosed  a  press-cutting,  with  a  sentence  underlined  in 
ink: 

Young  Streatham  at  three-quarters  also  played  a  good  game, 
tackling  low,  and  having  a  very  safe  pair  of  hands. 

She  smiled  with  pleasure  as  she  read  this.  It  was 
nice  to  think  that  perhaps  on  this  gray  afternoon 
"Young  Streatham"  was  distinguishing  himself.  She 
could  see  his  eager  young  face,  his  bright  eyes,  his 
muddy  clothes,  and  those  swift  young  legs  racing  across 
a  damp  field,  hugging  a  ball. 

Richard  was  growing  up.  He  was  n  't  exactly  clever, 
but  he  was  a  very  lovable  boy.  Everybody  adored  him. 
He  had  a  certain  rugged  philosophy  too.  She  remem- 
bered during  the  last  vacation  she  had  been  talking  to 
him  in  a  tentative  manner  about — what  one  owes  to 
one's  neighbor,  and  he  had  suddenly  laughed  and  said: 

"Oh,  life  isn't  a  thing  that  requires  justifying. 
Mother.     It  's  an  experience  to  be  lived ! ' ' 

She  liked  the  way  he  said  that,  and  she  often  won- 
dered whether  it  were  true.  He  would  grow  up  and 
go  out  into  the  world.  He  would  probably  leave  her, 
but  it  would  all  have  been  very  wonderful.  "An  ex- 
perience to  be  lived!" 

"What  isit,  Jacky?" 

The  bird  suddenly  behaved  in  a  strange  manner.  It 
fluttered  all  over  its  body  and  cowered  into  the  corner 
of  the  cage.  Its  small  head  seemed  to  be  trembling  and 
craning  forAvard.  She  followed  the  line  of  the  eye.  It 
was  fixed  upon  the  mirror  opposite.  Automatically  she 
looked  into  the  mirror.     She  could  still  just  see  Sir 


THE  LETTER  359 

Philip's  profile.  It  appeared  more  rigid  than  ever,  like 
the  face  of  a  porcelain  god.  The  room  was  getting 
darker.  She  thought  she  would  go  up  to  her  room,  but 
she  became  aware  of  the  bird  behaving  in  an  even  more 
remarkable  manner.  It  gave  a  little  cry  and  looked  at 
her,  and  huddled  itself  together  and  trembled  violently. 

She  said,  "Jacky,  Jacky,  what  is  it?" 

But  the  bird  continued  trembling.  Suddenly  a 
curious  feeling  of  concern  came  over  her.  She  thought 
she  had  never  felt  that  room  to  be  so  utterly  silent. 
She  could  not  hear  the  fountain.  Everything  seemed 
incredibly  still.  She  peered  forward  into  the  mirror. 
Sir  Philip  had  not  moved.  She  could  not  account  for 
the  feeling  of  terror  that  suddenly  came  over  her.  She 
stood  up  and  called  out  in  a  low  voice: 

"Philip!" 

There  was  no  answer,  and  she  moved  silently  and 
quickly  through  the  marble  room.  She  knew  that  she 
was  trembling  violently  herself,  and  was  conscious  that 
she  raised  her  voice  to  a  louder  pitch : 

''Philip!     Philip!" 

And  the  silence  seemed  more  terrifying  than  before. 


EPILOGUE 

THE  ROOF  OF  PURBECK  STONE 

THE  pallid  stars  had  given  up  their  vigil  of 
the  inconiprehensible  city,  and  had  slunk  back 
into  the  sky.  The  dawn  was  heralded  in  by 
fitful  gusts  of  rain  that  beat  against  the  window. 
Braille  caught  hold  of  the  hasp  and  peered  out  into 
Gyves  Court.  His  face  was  pale,  but  lighted  by  an 
exultant  gladness. 

"If  you  were  to  ask  me  what  are  the  seven  wonders 
of  the  world,"  he  said,  "to  be  candid,  I  could  not  tell 
you.  But  if  you  were  to  ask  me  what  is  the  greatest 
wonder  in  the  world,  I  should  say — the  laughter  of 
children !  Nobody  but  a  Frenchman  could  have  coined 
that  ridiculous  paraphrase,  'Man  proposes,  woman 
disposes.'  We  all  know  in  our  hearts  that  men  and 
women  can  propose  what  they  like; — all  the  'disposing' 
is  done  by  children.  They  are  the  masters  of  the  world. 
There  is  nothing  to  prevent  men  and  women  playing 
ducks-and-drakes  with  the  whole  cosmic  equation,  except 
that  when  they  meet  together,  in  some  dim  chamber, 
and  mumble  the  conspiracy  of  their  turgid  desires,  sud- 
denly above  their  heads  they  hear  the  patter  of  little 
feet,  and  the  crash  of  that  free  and  splendid  laughter. 
Strange,  is  n't  it  ?  how  seldom  one  hears  a  man  or  woman 
really  laugh — freely,   frankly,   splendidly!     And   when 

360 


THE  ROOF  OF  PURBECK  STONE  361 

we  do  hear  such  a  one,  we  know  that  he  or  she  has 
retained  some  vision  of  the  'trailing  clouds'  that  makes 
us  envious." 

He  drummed  on  the  panes,  and  then  turned  suddenly 
to  me,  and  said: 

"I  think  you  will  like  my  place  at  Rading.  It  is  in 
rather  a  jolly  position  on  a  bend  of  the  do^^^2S,  just 
eight  and  a  half  miles  from  the  sea.  I  had  some  fun 
with  it.  I  bought  some  old  Purbeck  stone  from  a 
builder  at  Lewes.  It  came  from  a  monastery  that  had 
been  destroyed.  I  used  it  for  roofing,  and  the  fact  was 
— there  was  much  too  much  of  it.  I  added  a  wing  to 
the  farmhouse,  and  built  an  absurdly  large  studio.  It 
is  true  I  abolished  the  pigs,  but  I  extended  the  stables, 
and  built  a  ridiculous  sort  of  archeological  museum — 
stuff  picked  up  on  the  downs.  I  really  did  it  all  to  use 
up  this  Purbeck  stone.  It  will  amuse  you  to  see  what 
a  'roofy'  place  it  is.  It  looks  very  jolly,  though,  espe- 
cially looking  down  on  it  coming  by  the  road  from 
Lewes.  Posterity  w^ill  probably  write  me  down  as  a 
great  archeologist  and  authority  on  Sussex  history, 
whereas  I  simply  did  it  to  use  up  the  stone,  and  also  to 
help  a  young  chap  I  know  who  really  is  an  authority. 
It  was  just  caprice! 

"Do  you  ever  allow  your  mind  to  dwell  upon  the 
vagaries  of  Caprice  ?  It  is  the  flicker  of  the  eyelid  that 
controls  the  balance  when  the  irresistible  force  meets 
the  immovable  mass.  By  caprice  the  king  turns  aside 
on  some  unusual  path,  and  meets  the  beggar-maid.  He 
looks  into  her  eyes,  and  lo !  a  new  aristocrac}'  is  born ! 
and  people  call  it — evolution !  By  caprice  this  Uncle 
Grubhofer  went  one  day  to  a  concert  in  Liverpool — 


362  OLGA  BARDEL 

you  should  know  the  result  better  than  I!  Do  you  re- 
member, Tony,  that  mad  night  two  years  ago  when  in 
a  capricious  mood  you  left  some  unholy  function  and 
ran  into  me  at  the  corner  of  Jermyn  Street?  and  we 
sat  here — the  slaves  of  some  whimsical  good — and  we 
talked  of  some  one  and  of  her  life,  and  you  told  me  of 
your  desire  to  'set  it  down'?  I  got  the  better  of  you 
over  that,  you  wretched  quill-driver !  I  warned  you  how 
it  would  be!  When  you  start  trying  to  see  a  life  in 
pattern  form  you  soon  realize  that  no  life  is  a  complete 
thing  in  itself.  You  are  marooned !  But  come !  It  will 
be  grand  up  on  the  downs  to-day,  it  's  always  at  its 
best  when  the  sea  is  beaten  up  like  churned  milk,  and 
the  rain  is  driving  in  your  face,  and  the  sea-cats  go 
shrieking  before  the  wind.  When  you  see  my  Purbeck 
roof  and  all  that  it  covers,  you  will  have  a  moment  of 
revelation,  you  will  understand  what  my  old  friend  Paes 
meant  by  'apotheosis,'  perhaps  you  will  even  know  why 
I  painted  'The  Mother'  .  .  .  All  these  things  will  be 
good  for  you  to  see,  they  will  emphasize  how  much  su- 
perior a  painter  is  to  a  mug  who  'sets  things  down.' 
What  else  shall  I  tell  you?  What  more  of  my  foolish- 
ness and  horror?  .  .  .  When  the  hair  of  the  world 
turned  gray  in  a  night,  mine  was  already  gray.  The 
horror  of  it!  When  Europe  picked  up  sides  and  de- 
cided to  destroy  itself,  I  visited  a  gentleman  in  White- 
hall. Ye  Gods!  You  talk  of  my  'little  visions,'  Tony, 
I  have  none  more  vivid  than  that!  That  little  gray- 
faced  man  with  a  receding  beard  who  glanced  at  me  and 
said  'You  're  too  old  for  the  sea !'  Too  old  for  the  sea! 
The  lying,  bleary-eyed  huckster!     Then  may  the  edi- 


THE  ROOF  OF  PURBECK  STONE  363 

fices  of  Humanity  crumble  in  the  dust!  Look  at  my 
torso !  feel  my  forearm,  Tony !     Too  old  for  the  sea !  .  .  . 

"I  was  at  Maggis  Square  when  the  boy  went.  You 
remember  it  was  the  house  she  moved  to  after  Sir 
Philip's  death.  I  hovered  in  the  background  like  a 
specter.  I  felt  at  moments  I  had  no  right  to  be  there, 
and  at  other  moments  that  I  had  every  right,  that  I 
possessed  the  whole  show,  as  it  were ;  that  I  was  the  only 
real  person  in  it.  You  know  how  sometimes  when 
things  are  happening  of  tremendous  moment  to  oneself, 
they  are  apt  to  take  on  a  fantastic  appearance,  as  though 
they  were  the  actions  of  other  people  who  had  lived  long 
ago,  and  were  being  reflected  on  a  screen.  .  .  . 

"One  thing  was  very  clear,  an  unstated  fact  that  we 
all  knew,  and  shared,  and  said  nothing  about.  You  see, 
the  boy  was  only  just  over  seventeen.  He  had  lied  to 
the  authorities,  and  made  out  he  was  nineteen.  He 
looked  ridiculously  young — a  mere  baby.  No  one  could 
have  been  deceived.  Olga  had  only  to  go  down  to  the 
War  Office  and  denounce  him,  and  he  would  have  been 
restored  to  her.  I  had  hinted  at  this  very  vaguely  one 
day,  and  I  saw  her  troubled  expression.  She  had  said 
nothing.  On  this  day  while  he  was  up-stairs,  I  looked 
at  her  again,  with  this  suggestion  on  my  lips,  but  some- 
how I  had  not  the  heart  to  express  it.  I  knew  that  she 
knew  of  what  I  was  thinking.  She  put  her  hand  on 
my  arm,  and  shook  her  head  very  slowly.  Somewhere 
in  the  distance  a  cornet  struck  a  bizarre  note.  The  boy 
came  down  the  stairs.  He  was  ready.  He  looked  fresh, 
gay,  and  excited.  He  was  splendidly  handsome,  with 
his  father's  eyes  and  bearing,  but  with  that  determined 


364  OLGA  BARDEL 

chin  of  his  mother's,  and  something  of  her  atmosphere. 
His  clothes  fitted  him  perfectly,  and  he  looked  taller 
and  broader  than  he  really  was. 

"The  Minotaur  of  War  likes  them  like  that,  brilliant, 
joyous,  and  bewilderingly  young,  with  that  glad,  vir- 
ginal, elevated  expression  of  the  eyes.  Tempting  mor- 
sels! My  heart  almost  stopped  as  I  saw  him  standing 
there  in  the  hall,  and  his  mother  gazing  at  him,  afraid 
to  go  and  throw  her  arms  around  him  .  .  . 

' '  I  think  of  all  the  emotions  of  humanity  there  is  none 
quite  so — what  shall  I  call  it? — distinguished? — as  the 
love  of  a  mother  for  a  grown-up  son.  It  has  lost  some- 
thing of  its  primitiveness  and  has  become  tempered  with 
a  finely-wrought  quality  of  mysticism,  as  though  she 
had  looked  between  the  eyes  of  a  god,  and  assisted  at 
so  profound  a  miracle  that  the  world  should  ever  after 
remain  a  place  for  the  contemplation  of  her  act.  The 
boy,  of  course,  was  blustering,  and  'bucking  his  mother 
up '  when  he  kissed  her  good-by.  I  had  not  the  courage 
to  tear  myself  away.  I  tell  you,  Anthony,  I  felt 
ashamed.  The  love  that  I  held  in  my  two  hands  seemed 
to  crumble,  to  be  a  poor  thing,  unworthy  to  flash  in 
the  presence  of  this  virile  sorrow.  The  dreary  note  of 
the  cornet  in  some  far-away  street  seemed  to  jeer  at 
me,  and  say: 

"  'You  have  no  place  in  this.  It  is  the  sweet  breath 
of  Youth  that  the  gods  demand.' 

"I  turned  and  looked  out  into  the  street.  I  heard 
her  kiss  him,  and  murmur: 

"  'My  dear  .  .  .  my  dear!' 

"She  did  not  cry,  and  her  ej^es  had  that  splendid, 
impassioned   look  that  filled  them   at  great  moments. 


THE  ROOF  OF  PURBECK  STONE    365 

She  held  him  from  her,  and  looked  at  his  eyes  and  hair 
lingeringly,  as  though  she  were  impressing  on  her  mind 
an  eternal  picture.  Then  she  looked  down.  The  boy 
was  brave  enough,  and  he  said — I  've  forgotten  what, 
but  it  seemed  the  right  thing,  and  he  swung  out  into  the 
street.  She  stood  by  the  door,  and  watched  him  go. 
As  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  waved  for  the 
last  time,  one  might  almost  have  tliought  from  her  ex- 
pression that  she  was  welcoming  him  home,  her  smile 
was  so  radiant,  and  her  face  so  young  and  flushed  with 
pride.  When  he  had  gone  at  last,  she  shut  the  door, 
and  stood  for  some  moments  looking  at  the  peg  where 
his  hat  had  hung.  Then  she  swayed  slightly,  and 
walked  along  the  hall  into  the  back  of  the  house. 

**You  know  how  the  houses  are  built  in  that  square. 
There  are  three  rooms,  and  a  kitchen,  on  the  ground 
floor,  and  a  yard  at  the  back.  As  women  will  in  such 
moments,  she  immediately  busied  herself  with  her  hands. 
I  didn't  exactly  notice  what  she  did,  but  I  followed 
her  into  the  kitchen.  None  of  the  maids  were  there. 
She  walked  across  the  kitchen,  and  picked  up  a — teapot, 
I  think  it  was.  She  shook  it,  and  stood  indecisively  in 
the  middle  of  the  kitchen  for  a  second.  And  then  a 
very  remarkable  thing  happened.  I  hardly  know  how 
to  tell  you  about  it,  Anthony,  it  may  seem  to  you  trivial 
and  inconsequential,  but  to  me  it  was  the  most  poignant 
moment  I  have  ever  experienced.  As  she  stood  there 
at  that  moment,  a  starling  fluttered  through  the  yard 
at  the  back,  and  gave  forth  three  long  deep  notes.  She 
started,  and  tiptoed  to  the  table  flap  in  front  of  the 
window,  and  looked  up  at  the  starling  with  an  expres- 
sion of  amazed  delight.     She  leant  forv/ard,   and  her 


366  OLGA  BARDEL 

lips  were  parted.  The  starling  continued  his  song.  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  that  moment  affected  me. 

''Think  of  it!  At  that  poignant  hour  crystallizing 
the  wayward  sorrows  of  her  life,  she  turned  aside  and 
listened  to  the  song  of  a  bird !  With  her  heart  crushed 
by  the  perversities  of  fate,  she  gazed  dumbly,  reverently, 
like  a  child  looking  up  at  an  apple-tree  on  a  morning 
in  spring.  Everything  from  the  moment  of  her  birth 
had  conspired  to  crush  that  quality  in  her,  but  it  had 
triumphed!  and  I  thanked  God  that  I  was  there  to  see. 

"Neither  heredity,  environment,  nor  the  tyranny  of 
saints  or  sinners,  the  material  calls  of  artificial  fame, 
or  superficial  love,  neither  despair,  disappointment,  out- 
rage, death,  or  sorrow  had  by  one  hair 's-breadth  dis- 
turbed the  serenity  of  that  great  soul;  nay!  it  meant 
more  than  that,  for  I  knew  that  as  she  turned  and  looked 
at  me,  out  of  her  great  love  of  me  that  came  burning 
from  her  eyes  there  arose  the  breath  of  something 
greater,  more  impersonal,  divine.  Greater  than  love, 
greater  than  honor,  greater  than  death,  the  power  of  a 
soul  to  renew  itself,  to  look  at  life  'like  a  child.'  They 
could  not  crush  this  in  her,  for  they  had  not  the  power. 
I  could  not  crush  it  in  her  if  I  had  wished,  for  I  had 
not  the  power.  I  could  only  see  her  at  a  distance, 
intangible  and  eternal  like  a  star  .  .  . 

' '  Then  she  came  to  me,  and  I  went  down  on  my  knees. 
I  don't  know  what  I  said — something  in  the  nature  of 
what  I  have  been  telling  you.  I  tried  to  express  to  her 
how  I  felt,  but  she  still  seemed  far  away.  My  head  was 
against  her  bosom,  and  her  lips  were  upon  my  brow, 
those  lips  of  which  I  had  dreamt  for  twenty  years  and 
more — they  were  mine,  given  to  me,  and  my  arms  were 


THE  ROOF  OF  PURBECK  STONE  367 

around  her,  aud  yet  she  seemed  so  far  away,  as  though 
it  had  all  happened  long  ago.  I  tell  you,  I  do  not  know 
what  I  said,  but  suddenly  some  phrase  of  mine  gripped 
her,  and  she  clung  to  it,  as  though  it  were  the  sanctuary 
of  all  her  sorrows.  Across  the  years  she  seemed  to  come 
back  to  me,  and  we  stood  there  side  by  side,  listening 
to  the  notes  of  the  starling.  ..." 


THE   END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


'IUN26B68 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


PR6001,       A9?'S0 


lir  "'■■■'   ■-.•■■■     •-      IBRARY  FACILITY 

mil  1 

mil 

mil 

1 

II    1 

AA 

1    nil      Mil      II 

000  373  48C 

)     3 

